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BY JEAN MIDDLEMAS, 


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V ^eWYO^. 




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THE 


New York Fireside Companion. 


Essentially a Paper for the Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
modiste, is printed in every number. 

The Answers to Correspondents contain reliable information on every con- 
ceivable subject. 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, 
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GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 


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17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


SILVERMEAD 


By JEAN MIDDLEMAN 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
17 to 27 Vandewatek Street. 














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SILVERMEAD. 


CHAPTER 1. 

“ To night I shall see him! To-night! JN o, surely it can hardly 
be. What? In one, two, three, in seven hours, he will walk into 
dinner. ’ ’ 

This to herself, at sweet seventeen, spoke Camilla Harding, of a 
young fellow she had met but once before. To be sure, it had been 
at a county ball, and though they had only danced together twice, 
there had been a good deal of sitting about, and ice hunting; in 
short, she and Horace Brudeyell had been — well, mutually well im- 
pressed, and had “ got on,” as his friend Jack Forbes expressed it, 
“ like wild tire.” She is up in her room now, her thoughts on her 
first love, as she already calls him to herself, her eyes on— her 
glass. 

It is so dreadfully tiresome to love a man you know nothing about, 
for you cannot tell what to be at to please him. In attire, does he 
like the simple or the elaborate? In complexion, does he affect pale- 
ness or a glowing flush? In manner, is it the interesting or the jolly 
that he will deem the more winsome? Oh, it is dreadful not to know! 

Poor little Lilia, as she had christened herself at the age of three, 
was quite in a quandary. She was not in a humor to do anything 
but prepare for half-past seven, and her ignorance of young Brude- 
nell’s tastes took all the direction, so to speak, out of her enthusiasm. 

“ He seemed to like me wonderfully,” she reflects, “ at the ball 
last week, and I was simple enough then.” 

Lilia had little confidence in her own judgment in dress. In fact 
she never really cared for herself, except in all black or all white. 
. At the ball she had worn white tulle illusion, with daisy chains and 
! a double row of the same unconceited flower around her pretty 
head. 

Lilia is petite, and slightly, very slightly, mind, plump for her 
years. Men call her a little duck. Her flesh is more beautiful than 
her features, which are pretty enough all the same, though still in- 
ferior in shape to the marvelous material of w T hich they are formed. 
The highest possible degree of health without the most distant ap- 
proach to coarseness, that describes her best. A low dress with 
short sleeves is especially becoming to her, and she wants no velvet 
about her round throat to point out its creaminess. Her fluffy hair 
of light, light brown, always looks as if it were going to be blown 
away, and while j r ou like it tor dancing up, you long to smooth it 
down. Her blue- gray eyes and her full little mouth have a. de- 


4 


SILVERMEAD. 


light ful expression of — what shall 1 say? — of asking for protection* 
which to the male heart, at least, is very touching. 

“You have no real beauty, child,” old Lady PrenJergast, her 
grandmother, with whom she lives at Silvermead Park, had of leu 
said to her, “ and so 1 shall bring you out young. A girl must make 
the most of her freshness when she has nothing else. 1 didn’t come 
out till 1 was twenty, and looked more, but — well 1 was different. 
There is nothing of the Juno about you,” and the proud old woman 
would give her fine old head a little shake and sit more bolt upright 
than ever. 

1 was forgetting Lilia’s little nose. Tnat would never do. It is 
small,' of course, "and slightly aspiring, but it is a very important 
little nose, all the same." It speaks to one of ideas and an alluring 
willfulness ; does away with any impression of milk and water, or, if 
you are a stickler for words, 1 will say cream and water, which the 
rest of her sweet person may have suggested, and, with its narrow, 
ever-moving nostrils, is just the comedian of her face, in which the 
mouth and eyes play the sentimental business. 

Altogether Camilla Harding is what 1 should call rather an exas- 
perating girl for women to contemplate; and, as a matter of fact* 
such few of them as happen to be not quite angelic delight in run- 
ning her down to men. 

Mrs. Routley said the other night to Jack Forbes (the three Miss 
Routleys are not attractive and don’t seem to marry): 

“ But, seriously, you can see nothing much in that little dot?” 

“No, not now,” he replied, “but when 1 put up my glass — 
there, so — I see a great deal.” 

Jack, though a good-hearted fellow in the main, is cruel to some 
people. 

“ Well, to be sure — what will men admire next!” 

“ You are right, after looking at Miss Harding, probably nothing 
for some time. ’ ’ 

“ But — but,” went on the old woman waxing warm at Jack’s 
rude answer, “ she has an insignificant figure.” 

“ Small, 1 own.” Jack is a bit of an artist, and etches delight- 
fully, while he has the sense not to paint; “ but there is magnificent 
length from her hip to the ground.” 

“ You mean she is dreadfully short- waisted. Just look, her waist 
is right under her arms.” The three Routley girls have no legs. 

‘ * Come, you must own her waist is very short. ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes,” Jack drawled, “about as short as the Venus de 
Medicis’.” 

Here Mrs. Routley turned her back upon Jack Forbes, and men- 
tally set him down as a very ill-bred young man. 

When you look at Lilia, she sets you wondering. You would like 
to be inside her head for a span. Has she ever heard of murders, 
disease, and death? She is so brimming with life and hope that 
somehow she carries you into a new region, and you find yourself 
growing to believe that all dreadful things are mere appearances 
and deceptions — that she, she and her girlish views, in their un- 
speakable health and strength are the only realities. You conclude 
her to be sensitive, unselfish, tender-hearted to man and beas^; then 
how can she, in this afflicting and afflicted world, be that sheer em- 


SILVERMEAD. 


5 


bodiment of Spring and Joy which beams before you. You mature 
ones, who have been groveling along for years, cogitating, weighing, 
splitting hairs, what has it all come to? 

Look there! Would you not barter decades of an existence like 
yours to be Lilia Harding for one hour? See, she has only drunk 
some water, but buckets of champagne could never give you a taste 
of the intoxication she enjoys. Can she live in a house, buy boots 
and shoes, be scolded by her grandmother, and yet be there fluttering 
before you with bloom as untouched of soul and body as a butter- 
fly ’sat its emancipation? 

You feel at such a question that 

“ There are more things in heaven and earth 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” 

and probably do not care to pursue the theme any further. 

The luncheon bell summoned the young girl from her reveries, 
and dashing down a Gloire de Dijon rose she had been holding at 
one side of her head as an experiment, she tripped and bounded 
down the gloomy black oak staircase like a sunbeam in a cavern, 
and caroling away as she went. 

Prompt as she had been Lady Prendergast was already seated in 
the great dining-room, which was almost as severe as herself and 
the staircase. 

“ Lilia, where have you been?” said the old lady. ” I sought 
you in the library, where you ought to have been at your history ; I 
heard you not in the music-room, when your hour for practice 
struck ; and now 1 am kept waiting for luncheon. W here have yon 
been?” 

“ Gran’ma, I have been arranging some things in my room.” 

I am not going to describe Lady Prendergast’s appearance, be- 
cause I am so tired in novels of grand old ladies in dark silk with 
snowy hair and ancient lace, “like an old picture.” They are of 
two kinds: the brightly amiable, and the redoubtable. Well, let us 
say that Lady Prendergast was one of the latter, and have done 
with it. 

“ Camilla, when 1 gave you the option of coming out at seven- 
teen, 1 made a compact with you, that your education was to con- 
tinue as if you had not left the schoolroom.” 

“ I know, gran’ma, but — ” 

“ 1 will not be interrupted thus,” helping herself to stewed rabbit, 
which a powdered footman handed — for there is much state at Sil- 
vermead. The butler and another splendid menial are in the room. 

Lady Prendergast is not an ill-bred woman, but she chooses at 
times purposely to do ill-bred things. She knows it is bad taste to 
lecture this great come-out girl before the servants, but her motive 
is to put her back in her place, and teach her not to give herself airs. 
She pursues : 

“ A compact is, between honorable people, as binding on one side 
as the other. 1 brought you out, as 1 promised, thus performing my 
part of the bargain. Of course you do not intend to fulfill yours; 
only, mark this, and do not hope you have made a fool of me. I 
never for a moment supposed that you would fulfill it.” Then, 
breaking into French for the final dig, she adds : 

“ Tu es par troy la Jille de ton pere, pour cela.” 


6 


SILYERMEAD. 


Think not because Lilia continued to eat lier roast chicken with- 
out the slightest sign of emotion that she is lacking in pride, sensi- 
bility, or love for her absent father. It is only that she has grown 
accustomed to these taunts. Then, she knows that, as to this par- 
ticular morning, her septuagenarian relative is right. Lilia has been 
idle. 1 fancy too that the presence of the servants lias something to 
do with her success in controlling her usually too high temper. Per- 
haps Lady Prendergast did not quite relish this utterly undemonstra- 
tive way of meeting her reproof. At any rate, as soon as the exi- 
gencies of the table permitted it, she said, “ Bates, you needn’t 
wait,” and lo, like unto shadows, the three powerful and beer- 
primed men departed. 

The joyousness of Lilia’s nature at this period of her ex- 
istence must have been a perfectly inexhaustible fund. To say 
that she was sanguine conveys a very faint idea of her almost 
absurd hopefulness on all subjects. As her beauty irritated other 
women, so this imperturbable talent for happiness often provoked 
her grandmother’s somewhat soured nature; and had, further, the 
effect of divesting in her own eyes the harshest acts or words, with 
which she chose to visit Lilia, of any taint of cruelty. How can 
you be cruel if you do not inflict pain? And, really, unless this 
merry girl knocked her foot against some grass-hidden stone in one 
of tier mad courses with Rolfe, the deerhound — when she would cry 
like a baby for ten seconds, and then laugh at herself for having 
cried — she never showed that she suffered. 

Here were these two close relations living together for j r ears, and 
the strange thing was that the old lady, who was always saying un- 
kind words, hid beneath all her harshness a passionate love for the 
girl; while Lilia, who never, or scarcely ever, forgot to be polite 
and respectful, had no spark of gratitude or affection for Lady 
Prendergast. 1 may sa}' at once that this was the old lady’s grand 
cross in life, for she was under no illusion on the subject. She 
hoped, of course, for love of any kind must hope or die; but she 
knew that all .the conscientious severity, and all the indulgence, for 
she had tried both, which she so lavishly bestowed on her dead 
-daughter’s child, had hitherto been as seed flung upon a rock. 

This thought was present, in all its bitterness as the two sat suck- 
ing their hot-house grapes this April afternoon. 

“ Of course,” said the grandmother, “ 1 know 1 might as well 
talk to a wall as to you.” 

“ Oh, gran’ma, don’t say that; you know I do study, and play 
the piano some mornings.” 

“ Yes, as your father was a good husband to my daughter — some- 
times.” 

“ Well, he can never have been very bad, for you say she wor- 
shiped him to the end. ’ ’ 

‘‘But, you poor, silly thing, that was out of the wealth of her 
goodness, not from his deserts. She loved him once and for ever, 
as a mother loves her prodigal; poor sainted Agatha!” and the old 
lady wiped away a genuine tear. “ Oh, that you would imitate 
lier!” 

“ You know, gran’ma, I was only two when she died.” 


SILVERMEAD. 7 

“ Yes, and her death was a curse of Heaven upon your father for 
his incorrigible gambling, and — and woise.” 

This was a little beyond even Lilia’s endurance, and she cried — 

“ It is no use your abusing papa, because it onty makes me love 
him, if possible, more and more eveiy time you blame him,” and 
she looked the old lady full in the face, and the latter could not 
bear the glance. 

“ Hear, hear him speak for himself,” and Lady Prendergast 
pulled a foreign letter from her pocket, and, adjusting her specta- 
cles, prepared to read. Lilia’s face changed in an instant. 

“ A letler from papa! And you never told me!” 

“ It is always time enough to hear what lie has to say.” 

Lilia had half risen, but resumed her seat upon the other’s severe, 
“ Sit down.” 

“ Always time enough to hear what he has to say,” and there was 
smoldering rage as well as open contempt in the ring of the aged 
voice. Then she read : 

“ You will be glad, or, by-the-bye, I suppose I should say sorry, 
to hear that 1 have, at last, had a turn of luck. At the Vienna 
races 1 cleared six hundred pounds, so 1 write to say I will not 
trouble you for my monthly dividend this time. Also, that 1 feel 
confident that this little win is the turn in the tide of my fate. It is 
what I have long wanted in order to try a system at Monaco, which 
has never yet failed, but which so few besides myself iiave the self 
command seriously to test. ’ ’ 

“ His self command!” scoffed her ladyship. 

“ Go on, go on!” 

“ You know I am not fond of in-door work. 1 shall, therefore, 
limit my plundering of Blanc & Co. to ten thousand pounds, and 
then set up a racing establishment once more at dear old New- 
market, where my unrivaled knowledge of the craft must, if 1 have 
only the barest modicum of luck, rapidly make me one of the richest 
men in England. To your severe mind, no doubt, these views are, 
to say the least, chimerical. You are like the rest of the world, and 
only judge by results. YY)u have never done any justice to my 
abilities. But time will show. To me my future is clear and bright, 
and, this being so, my first thought is my darling Lilia.” 

“ My own papa!” said the girl, almost to herself. 

“ Y’ou have taken advantage of my misfortunes to part us, but I 
warn you to prepare for a change, as I shall no longer be in need 
of your charity. I have a right to do as 1 like with my own child. 
1 will that she* remain under your roof for extra satety until my cer- 
tain hopes are partly realized, but 1 command that she at once be per- 
mitted to write to me. Your forbidding our correspondence was 
always an unnatural abuse of the power which my cruel stars placed 
in your hands, and was only endured by me from sheer necessity. 
Y'our brief notes stating that Lilia is well, are poor comfort to a fa- 
ther’s heart.” 

“Oh, my poor, dear, darling, handsome papa!” exclaimed his 
daughter. * “ Gran’ma, you will let me write.” 

“"Never,” said the old lady. “ Think for one moment, if you 
can think; if you love him, reclaim him. You are his only stay, his 
only safeguard. He loves you and yearns every day, more and 


SILYERMEAD. 


8 

more, for your letters, for your company, but be loves bis passion 
more. ’ ’ 

* ‘ It is false!” 

“ Is it tbougb? He proves it. He can have you to-morrow, live 
with you in decent comfort. I have offered seven hundred a year 
for his solemn word; for, wretched as my opinion of him is in other 
things, 1 think he would keep his word.” m 

“ Think! My papa is the soul of honor!” 

“ Oh, vastly honorable, in good sooth! He has the honor of a 
gamester; enough to keep his word, not enough to care about bring- 
ing my child to the grave, and utterly disgracing his own.” 

When one of two disputants quits the conversational tone, it is 
rare indeed but that the other follows suit. It was now Lilia’s turn 
to flare up. W ith flashing eyes, she rose and said : 

“ Grandma, I will write!” 

“ Will, indeed!” 

“ Yes, will; so, quick, the address.” 

“lam not wicked enough to give it to you.” 

“ Then,” and the girl snatched the letter, but the next moment 
burst into tears of rage. 

The address had been neatly cut out from the head of the paper. 


CHAPTER II. 

Lady Prendergast’s dinner party took place that evening as 
blithely as though no painful family^ scene had preceded it. 

Female tears are among the most attractive things imaginable, but 
their traces are certainly not becoming; and Lilia was especially glad 
on this occasion that they left no more lasting sign upon her dainty 
cheeks than a shower of rain does on a gravel walk. When she met 
her “ ancestor,” as she now jokingly to herself, and formerly to her 
father, termed her aged relation, at five o’clock tea, the two ex- *- 
changed the usual civil common places as if nothing had happened. 
Lady Prendergast felt that she had checkmated her headstrong girl, 
and the latter wished to show that she was not permanently upset 
by it. The only effect of the luncheon scene was that Lilia would 
not condescend to ask several leading questions about Mr. Brudenell, 
which, ever since the eventful ball at which she lost her heart, as 
she put it to herself, she had been from day to day deferring to ask, 
she hardly knew why. 

At present she knows not at all how the old lady would look on - 
the match, if to matching her flirtation wit A the young man should 
ever come. She is only aware that Horace is heir presumptive to his 
uncle, Sir Howard Brudenell, a magistrate of the Midland county, 
where these events are passing; which uncle, although seeming to 
adopt him as his son, is yet himself a youngish man, a widower 
without family, and who has never said but what he might marry 
again. That Horace, now two and twenty, has been for many years 
an orphan, Camilla knows ; but she is in total ignorance of what his 
means may be, independently of his rich uncle. 

The first of the dinner party to arrive was Miss Laffinch, a spite- 
ful, even poisonous old maid, who lived in the village, and who held 


SILYERMEAD. 9 

her own with all the people of note round about, by what can only 
be described as the secret terror she inspired. 

She had the most wonderful way of making you understand her 
without ever saying in set terms what she meant. She contrived to 
convey the impression on first meeting you that she was wholly un- 
principled, and would surely, sooner or later, stab you in the dark, 
unless you made it worth her while to pat you on the back. All that 
can be said in palliation of this policy is that she had no other means 
of being what she lived to be— a power. She was very clever, but 
told herself that “ good cleverness ” was comparatively a sorry 
weapon for a lone, needy, and ill-favored woman to wield. 

To-day, for instance, the party was much too good for her. There 
were the Marquis of Caulfield and his handsome daughter, Lady 
Susan Graye; the County Member and the Hon. Mrs. de Basle, 
Lord and Lady Fouroaks, who keep the merriest and most open 
house for twenty miles round, and yet Miss Laffinch w r as asked 
literally on account of the lies she would tell if left out. Lady 
Prendergast is quite aware that this poisonous person knows all 
about Cave Harding, Lilia’s gambling and much too gay father- 
and, until the girl is settled in life, she does not venture to brave 
her vindictive tongue. Besides,' you meet her everywhere, often 
staying on visits in country houses, and, until the whole county shall 
combine to drop and cut her with one accord, they all elect to do like 
one another, and hating, still invite her. 

Horace Brudenell comes in one of the last, with his chum, Jack 
Forbes. The object of Lilia’s infatuation is a pleasant enough object 
for the general eye to contemplate. Not much above the middle 
height, he looks taller than he is, from his erect carriage and well- 
proportioned figure. His dark, classic head reminds one not a little 
of Byron’s, with its short, close, natural curls in thick profusion 
around it. His manner and address are good, and very quiet. The 
complexion and general expression of the face speak of outdoor 
pursuits rather than literary ones, and prepare you to find in Bru- 
denell less of acquired knowledge, less of the ideas of others, than 
natural gifts, and a pleasant fancy of his own. His boyish dream 
was for the army, but Sir Howard would not hear of it, and he is 
now studying under his uncle’s land agent. The fields are his books, 
and he is generally in the saddle by seven o’clock in the morning, 
free to sleep of an afternoon, if he likes, for Horace is not in favor 
of early closing of his eyes, and when there is a ball or other night 
revel toward, he often sallies forth to his work with no more restful 
invigorators than a bath and a biscuit. 

After shaking hands with his hostess, he does so with Camilla, 
who is surprised to note more of marked grave deference than of any 
more cordial quality in his greeting. Lovers never see clearly, and, 
therefore, the young girl can hardly be expected to guess that the 
true reading of Brudenell’s manner is that he would not have her 
think that any 'prevenance with which she may have honored him 
the other night has left auglit in his mind to justify a more familiar 
footing. Yet without rightly analyzing the motive, she is still, 
pleased with the courtly way in which he accosts her. 

The women who have not a passion for respect are very few and 
far between, and if there were none at all devoid of it the world 


SILTERMEAD. 


10 

would be all the better oft. How often has a man lost in the one in- 
stant of greeting all the ground he so laboriously won at the last in- 
terview, by coming up to a woman with a familiar smile that says, 
“ Well, we did get on the other night, didn’t we?” On the con- 
trary, what draws a woman on to intimacy is that you should never 
appear aware of your progress. Thus a witty Frenchman has said — 

“ A woman is like your shadow; follow her, and she flies; but 
run away, and she pursues you.” 

It was then with the merest commonplace that Horace opened 
conversation with the young lady of the house. _ 

■ * I hope you were not very tired the other night, Miss Harding, 
it is a long drive,” and he added to himself: 

“ Well, you are a beauty, even prettier than 1 thought 3 r ou were.” 

While she: “Tired! That is a thing 1 scarcely ever am, and 
never when I am happy. ” 

. And to herself: “ Oh! his eyes and his voice are too charming, 
and will distract me so I shall hardly hear what he says sufficiently 
to answer him.” 

And she kept her own eyes down, not from affected modesty, but 
for fear they should speak too plainly, and too soon. 

“ Shall you be at the Hasham dance on Monday?” 

“ 1 do not see how it can be managed. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, but it must be.” 

* l Must it! Why?” 

‘ * Because — because, in the first place, you are fond of dancing, 
and then it will be a great pleasure to me to meet you there.” 

“ Will it?” 

“ I am sure you know it wifl.” 

“ I am very glad.” 

“ Are you? That 1 want to meet you there? Oh, why?” 

“ It is always pieasapt to be appreciated.” 

How long they would have gone on reveling in such nothings, 
like very lovers as they already were, 1 cannot say; for the an- 
nouncement of dinner now came to interrupt their prattle. Brude- 
nell was told to take in Lady Susan Graye, whereon Lilia suddenly 
found herself speculating upon that tall young beauty’s attractive- 
ness in a way she had never done before. 

“ Well,” she thinks, “ the same man could hardly admire us both, 
so if he cares for me at all, she will not distract him from me.” 

The next best thing to sitting beside the person you care for at table 
is to be opposite, and to-day Lilia’s innocent little maneuvers with 
Mr. de Basle to effect this end proved quite successful. 

The county member is a cheery old fellow of sixty, and while he 
delights in a pretty girl, is a model to too many men of his years in 
his way of showing it. It is thoroughly paternal — 

“ Old as I am, for ladies’ love unfit, 

The power of beauty I acknowledge yet.” 

That is all very well, but the whole question lies in the way of 
acknowledging it. Mr. de Basle’s manly, honest way, which has no 
ogling and sighing about it, is, unhappily; the rare exception; the 
rule being that old fellows either don’t bother their heads at all about 
the young beauties they meet in society, or they annoy and disgust 


SILVERMEAD. 


11 


them by perpetually implying llieir sentiments by their words and 
their looks. 

Mr. de Basle and Lilia had met several times before, so they now 
embarked merrily in discussion on various topics of the hour, chiefly 
local. But the old gentleman was not one of the most popular ban* 
terers in the House of Commons for nothing, nor could he sit so near 
the electric telegraph of our young couples’ eyes across the table 
without finding out the best way of interesting his fair neighbor. 

“ Handsome boy that, ” he said, “ isn’t he?” 

“ What, Mr. Brudenell? Yes, he is good-looking, certainly.” 

“ And not a bit spoiled — yet.” 

“ Yet!” 

“ It will be a wonder if he isn’t as conceited as the rest of them 
very soon. All the women at our side of the country rave about 
him.” 

“ Do they indeed?” 

“ Every one of them. As I say, the young fellow is well enough, 
but to hear them talk, and see them go on—” 

“ Well?” 


“Well, it doesn’t say much for our other young men— poor 
things!” 

This was becoming something more than highly interesting, it 
was alarming. Lilia said to herself, “ After all, 1 might have known 
it! If 1 can see that there is no one like him, why should not 
others? He is nice to me, no doubt, but, oh, is he not so to many- 
more? M'ith all women at his feet — and it is no woman, but this 
hard man of the world that says it — will he not buy wealth and free- 
dom by marrying some great heiress? Lady Susan, perhaps? Yes, 
she is an only child. See how she smiles on him! Oli, how 1 wish 
Jack Forbes, as they call him, had taken her in; he is so delight- 
fully ugly.” 

“ You don’t see much of the hunting, 1 think,” said the M.P. “ 1 
never meet you in the field.” 

“We drive to the meet when it is near, but there is a great fault 
in my education. You smile! you think there are many — ” 

“ Nothing of the sort.” 

“ Oh, yes, and there are; but I mean 1 was never taught to 
ride.” 7 

And Lilia’s thoughts cast back to her nomadic existence with her 
father, when no time was ever found for anything but the winning 
of money or losing it. Yes, thorough Bohemians they had been; 
and it look all Camilla’s gentle blood to have retained her high 
breeding in spite of the strange experiences of her young life. By 
fits and starts she had lived with Lady Prendergast, both in London 
and at Silvermead, for uncertain periods ever since her childhood ; 
but the course of her education had been too often checked for it to 
bear much of the desired fruit, and had she not been both singularly 
apt, and, as girls go, decidedly fond of her lessons, the result must 
have proved disastrous. 

“Ah! 1 admit now,” said the old gentleman, “ that in the hunt- 
ing field young Brudenell deserves all the credit he wins; and 1 
think his fondness for the sport will save him, in spite of his curls 
and his eyelashes. 1 don’t ride hard myself, and am a sixteen-stone 


12 


SILYERMEAD. 


man, but I know every gate and gap in the countiy, and can tell 
pretty well what men and hounds are about on four days out of five. ” 

Of course, Lilia was very glad to hear that Horace was a good 
man and true to hounds. What girl would not be pleased with 
such intelligence? 

Having struck so harmonious a chord, Lilia and her mature cava- 
lier chatted along so briskly through dinner, that it was quite an 
effort to her politeness to address herself now and then— and as the 
young lady of the house she was bound to do so — to a ladylike 
young man on her right, a fair, in fact, color/m, beard/m, and 
pretty near everyth ing-fess youth, who said he was reading for the 
Church. 

“ Poor Church ” was on her lips in an instant, and she hardly 
avoided breathing the word. 

At the lower end of the table the dreadful Laffinch is telling Mrs. 
de Basle all that has occurred, and much that has not, during the 
latter’s temporary absence in London. She is doing this across a 
stout gentleman who attends to nothing but his dinner, and who 
rather likes to be talked through as saving him trouble and helping 
digestion. 

To Miss Laffinch, moreover, it has the advantage of keeping up 
her reputation for reckless assertion with all the by-sitters. “ I tell 
you when she married him,” insists Miss Laffinch, “ he had nothing 
left, and had long been living on handfuls of silver he got out of his 
mother. My cousin’s footman told my maid he often caught him 
eating at luncheon bars and public-houses — case of two hot sau- 
sages, threepence — and now he’s got so fine he can scarcely see the 
ground,” and evidently not Miss Laffinch. 

And a little later you caught such detached pieces of rashness, as : 

“ They’ve all got it — all, to the youngest child — quite incurable!” 
or, “ The mother was a servant maid: know it for a fact, a dirty 
underhousemaid;” or, “ Eldest boy an idiot, oh, yes, I’ve seen him 
— eleven years old, and dribbles like an infant, made me quite 
sick;” or, “ They declare she buried her first husband before he was 
cold.” 

Y ou wonder how the woman can have been tolerated in this polite 
circle on any terms or conditions; but the fact was, it had become a 
mere case of nobody daring to “ bell the cat.” 

1 forgot to explain too, that Miss Laffinch was a great player at 
cards, and as such, made herself a kind of necessity to manv of 
those great people who had a difficulty in getting a fourth for whist, 
or finding an opponent at piquet, ecarte, or backgammon. Some 
said, indeed, that when not living on others, she well-nigli kept her- 
self by her profits in such kind. Too clever to cheat, in the com- 
mon acceptation of the word, her mode of proceeding was unfair in 
the extreme; and although her utter want of piinciple on this head 
made her a standing joke wherever her arts were known, most of 
her victims were too rich and too indolent to be anything but con- 
temptuously amused by what they called her “ little ways.” She 
would, for instance, always try to begin without a word being said 
as to stakes. If cards went against her, she thought they icere playing 
for nothing; if in her favor: 

“ Oh the usual thing; half-crowns of course.” If this failed, she 


SILVERMEAD. 


13 


would exact every penalty of the game with the utmost rigor where 
the offense was against her, declaring that strict law was the soul 
of play; while, if she broke any of the rules, it was a case of “ a 
mere little friendly game, and nothing mattered.” On the rare oc- 
casions when, spite of all, she lost, her purse was either forgotten or 
empty, and she would say to her host in the most winning way ; 

“ I fear 1 must make you my banker for a few hours,” so getting 
him to settle for her; those few hours ran into weeks and years, but 
they never brought back the borrowed losings. 

The head of Lady Prendergast’s table monopolizes most of the 
dignity and dullness present. Her ladyship and the marquis have 
been friends and neighbors for forty years, so they find plenty to talk 
about; only, as most of the people they mutually knew in their best 
days have departed this life, the conversation has a constant tend- 
ency to the mournful and indeed the prosy. 

“ Is Camilla to stay with you for any length of time?” asks Lord 
Caulfield. 

' “ I hope always,” is the answer, uttered with the fervor of a prayer; 
** always, till she marries, as 1 suppose she will some day.” 

“ Is there anything on the tapis?” 

“ Oh, dear no, she is only just seventeen, and went to her first ball 
the other night.” 

“ Where she was out and out the belle of the room.” 

“ You think her so pretty? She is the image of my poor child.” 

“I do, indeed. There are, of course, more beautiful faces, but 
her animation and freshness carry all before them. And how about 
presenting her? How about the London season?” 

“ I have thought of it all,” said the old lady, with a sudden un- 
easy look in her eyes, “ and do not see how it can be managed. I 
am” really too old. I am perhaps strong enough, but 1 have not 
spirits for the gay world now, and— well — there are reasons. I do 
not think it can be expected of me now.” 

Then, smiling, she added: 

“ No, Lilia must take her chance in the county. There is enough 
going on, I am sure, from September till May.” 

“ You know,” pursued the marquis, kindly, “both Lady Caul- 
field and my daughter already like Camilla exceedingly, and if you 
would intrust her to us for a few weeks — we go up on the 30th — ” 

The same frightened look again shot up into Lady Prendergast’s 
eyes as she said : 

“ Quite impossible — quite out of the question— but, oh! how can 
1 thank you enough, my dear, dear friend. Such offers are rare in- 
deed,” and so real was her emotion that she had to stop for a mo- 
ment. 

“ It was my wife’s idea, I assure you,” pursued the old gentle- 
man. 

“ Indeed? Well. I shall never forget it. Pray express to Lady 
Caulfield — but, no, I must speak to her myself.” 

“Iam sure it would have been a great pleasure to us; and Susan 
having no sister — ” 

“ You are much too good; you would make out you were doing 
no favor; but I should have esteemed it a very, very great one. 


14 SILYERMEAD. 

There are reasons which 1 cannot — which, at least, 1 would so much 
rather not explain.” 

“ Oh, not another word, dear Lady Prendergast, I entreat.” 

“ But you deserve my fullest confidence, and were it not that cer- 
tain details would, 1 know, give you as much pain to hear as they 
would me to set forth, 1 am sure I would tell you the whole sad 
story.” 

“ Only if my ad dee or assistance can serve you; until then, 1 will 
not agree to be your confessor,” Lord Caulfield concluded, smiling 
a sort of full stop to the subject. 

The fact is, that such an offer would have been all that Lady 
Prendergast’s most sanguine hopes could desire, were it not for her 
terror of her son-in-law. That Cave Harding — this worst of fathers, 
as she considered him — would some day rob her old ago of Camilla 
as no husband would do, was the constant dread of her life; that, 
but for money considerations, he would now take her away, and 
separate them for ever, she w T cll knew, and also that Cave, with all 
the undying sanguineness of a gamester, would, at the first few 
turns of the wheel of fortune in his favor, no longer be governed 
even by these. 1 have said that the giandmother deeply loved the 
girl, and she did so in a way that went far beyond the mere selfish 
joy of seeing and touching and listening to her. She was no fool, 
was not this old lady, and indulged in no false dreams of living for 
ever. A few, a veiy few more years of Lilia’s company, that was 
the most she could expect, as far as her own interests were con- 
cerned. Nor was it the fear of losing these that mainly roused her 
alarm. No, she was haunted by the thought that Cave Harding 
would not only take away Lilia from her and the high circles to 
which by birtlftliey all belonged, but that he would blast her whole 
future by associating her with his own discreditable life, and, in a 
word, disgrace her for ever through his debts, his expedients, and, 
worst of all, his companions, always, as he would no doubt declare 
upon his honor, with the very best intentions, which w r ould of 
course not improve matters by so much as one single iota. It was 
these themes, which, ever and anon brooded upon until they became 
more real than the actual circumstances of her life, that day by day 
stole atvay the old lady’s stock of vitality, and which, coming to her 
like phantoms in the night, robbed her of sleep and sent her down 
o’ mornings looking as though the hours which should belong to 
peaceful rest had been spent at some of her detested son-in-law’s 
orgies of dice, cards, and wasting excitement. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was such a precocious evening for April, that when the gentle- 
men joined the ladies after dinner they found them sitting with the 
glass doors of the drawing-room wide open, and one or two of the 
younger ones had even thrown something over their heads and 
shoulders, and ventured forth upon the moonlit lawn. The con- 
servatory at Silvermead was a regular lounge, and much of its spa- 
ciousness was devoted to a wide walk, where, contrary to the fash- 
ion of most flower-houses, you could saunter three abreast. Seats 


SILVERMEAD. 


15 

were conveniently scattered about, there was an iron table or two, 
and, in short, you saw at a glance that it was not quite a place 
where the pancratia and orchids were to have it all their own way. 
To this spot did Camilla and Brudenell presently repair, having 
contrived the move with so much tact that they got there without 
ever seeming to go; besides, they found three of the party already 
ensconced at one end, to break any awfulness they might have felt 
in the measure; these were Jack Forbes and another young man, 
reveling in the fumes of Turkish cigarettes, and a young lady who 
declared that she loved the blue vapor, but who, in truth, only 
meant that she would rather endure it than forego the society of the 
smokers. 

“ Have a cigarette, Horace?” said Jack, as they passed. 

“ Do you mind?” this, most respectfully, to Lilia, who, as she 
answered, “ Not in the least,” smiled unconsciously as she thought, 
” Why, it is my native atmosphere.” 

She really liked it, but was especially pleased that her cavalier 
should smoke now, because she was a little nervous lest any stiffness 
should mar their coming tete-a-teie. Nor was this a mere fancy of 
hers; a young couple can, undoubtedly, get on more smoothly when 
the lover has something besides soft words between his lips; it is 
something to do when there is not exactly anything else to do, and, 
moreover, serves as a delightful obstacle to the lady saying, “ Shall 
we go back to the others?” until the little glow worm be quite con- 
sumed. 

This time the artful Horace had taken two Favoritas from Jack’s 
proffered case. Lilia was in considerable, albeit delightful, trepida- 
tion, all impatience and curiosit} r . How she wished she knew iust 
a little more of the customs of the world as regards young men who 
have recently fallen in love. How soon and how much they show 
it? What is the very shortest number of meetings after which it is 
respectful for a wooer to declare himself? You see, she had a great 
idea of respect, had our Lilia. And then, was Horace one of those 
whom the least coldness would discourage! and dismiss for ever, or 
rather, a lover — she thinks, she is almost sure, he does love her — 
who would hold cheaply one too lightly won, preferring great mod- 
esty and coyness, doubt, suspense, and a whole novel in three vol- 
umes of delicious tantilization, before his prayers are granted, his 
goddess clasped to his heart. % 

As for Camilla herself, she has quite made up her mind. She is 
quite sure Horace is perfection. If he chooses to ask her for her 
heart and hand to-night, she will give them to him. Not that she in 
the least expects he will do so. She has thought him well over since 
they met at the ball a week ago, and has decided, with all a 
woman’s logic, that a man with those eyes must be the soul of 
honor, a model lover and husband, and all the rest of it. She asks 
herself how on earth other poor girls can put up with such gods of 
clay as are most other men, and inwardly declares that if Horace 
Brudenell does not woo and win her, or, winning, should prove false 
—well, she will be a nun or an old maid, or an old man’s darling, or 
anything else that is dreadful and uncomfortable, but that love- 
sweet, holy, enchanting love— shall be a closed book for her ever- 
more.. 


16 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ I am thinking about Monda} r , Miss Harding,” says Horace, tak- 
ing his first puff as they stroll off from the others; “ ever since last 
week 1 have been wondering when I shall have another dance with 
you.” 

“ Not really?” 

“ Oh, yes. I don’t think 1 ever enjoyed a dance so much before. ” 

“No!” 

“ I mean, nothing like so much. Can it not be managed that you 
go to the Hasham ball? Do try. Come and make it like the last.” 

“ Oh,” she says, “ 1 am quite as anxious to meet you as you are — ” 
Then she thinks that sounds forward and means “ quite as anxious 
to meet you as you are to meet me,” so she adds, *‘ I am already so 
fond of dancing, after one ball, I would do anything to go to a 
second.” 

Then she reflects that it is rude to him to put it all on the danc- 
ing, and rather regrets the addition. 

“ Do you think,” he says, “ is there no plan — no hope?” 

“ Well, 1 think there is— just a gleam. Since you asked me 
about it before dinner, something has happened. Lady Fouroaks, 
who, you must know, is a great favorite of grandma’s, came, of her 
own accord, and said she had been thinking how it could be ar- 
ranged. ” 

“Well done! I was always fond of Lady Fouroaks,” quoth 
Horace, emphatically. 

“ Yes, but it all depends on grandma, and I fear she will never 
consent. You see 1 am very young,” this deprecatingly, as though 
it were a serious drawback to all agreeable things. 

“ That can’t be denied,” put in Horace, amusedly. 

“And grandma doesn’t like my staying at Fouroaks, or any- 
where, merely chaperoned by the lady of the house. She says it is 
done, but she does not like it for me, and— and I am nearly sure she 
won't consent,” and the poor child looked so really sorry that Hor- 
ace began to grieve for her disappointment as well as his own. They 
walked on a few steps in silence, then stopped at a spot where the 
moon shone in with daylight brightness, and the young man in- 
dulged in a quiet gaze at the girl’s soft beauty. 

Presently he said : 

“ Forgive the suggestion, 1 am only anxious this thing should be 
accomplished in some way. You told me the other night you lost 
your mother when quite a little thing, but why do you not write and 
make your father come and escort you to the ball?” 

Needless to say that Horace had never heard one syllable of any 
kind regarding him. It was one of those stray shots which some- 
times tell with such killing effect. The girl’s face instantly grew 
purple. She evidently knew that it did so, and this added tenfold 
to her confusion. Unhappily too, as they were standing, Brudenell 
could not pretend that he had not seen this deep, troubled blush of 
hers, so that for him as well as for her, the situation was nothing 
short of very painful. It was all very well for Camilla to tell Lady 
Prendergast that “ her darling papa ” was the soul of honor and 
that she worshiped him with her whole soul ; she must have knowm 
very well that her father’s w r ays were not such as the great world 
looks upon with favor— and that is putting it in the mildest form— 


SILYERMEAD. 


17 

or whence her present embarrassment? It was very difficult lor 
Horace to know what to do. He was one of those who believe in the. 
maxim, “ Least said, soonest mended.” Yet he could not stand 
there, a witness of the pain his suggestion had caused, and, the poor 
girl being speechless, remain silent too. There being nothing 
straightforward to do that was of any use, he took refuge in a little 
harmless deceit, saying: 

“ Oh, pray forgive me, Miss Harding. I quite see how it is; you 
think me impertinent for dictating in your affairs, and you'are 
deeply annoyed with me for the liberty 1 have so thoughtlessly 
taken.” 

Camilla saw through the ruse, and was grateful to him. 

“ Oh, no,” she faltered, “ you are wrong — ” 

‘ ‘ 1 would rather offend the wdiole world than you — if you only 
knew. ’ ’ 

“ But 1 am not offended. I think your suggestion very kind, but 
— well my dear father is very far off — abroad; 1 love him so dearly, 
and the sudden thought that circumstances part us for the present — ” 

“ 1 see, 1 see — quite so,” said Horace, vaguely. 

They had resumed their walk. Lilia bent her head, for she dis- 
covered, after the words were uttered, that she had given a false ex- 
planation of her confusion. There is nothing more difficult than to 
be always truthful, even when we make it the chief ^object of our 
lives, which few of us do. She would gladly have confided utterly 
in Horace, told him 

“ The bitter-sweet befallings of her youth 

but, besides many other obvious reasons, the newness of their ac- 
quaintance made such a course impossible. 

“ 1 wonder what the deuce it all means,” said Brudenell to him- 
self; “ wonder if my uncle can enlighten me! Screw loose with her 
father, 1 fancy!” 

And now Lilia looked up at him with something of her usual 
brightness in her eyes, and said: 

“ Perhaps I shall tell you a great deal about papa, when — when I 
know you better.” 

“ Then I will. make haste and know you better as fast as ever 1 
* can.” 

“ You would not be too much bored wiih my story?” 

“ You try me. ’ ’ 

“ But ho tv do you know?” 

‘ * The great point of a story, 1 always think, is to like the heroine. ” 

“ You see,” she went on, without noticing this little compliment, 
“ gran’ma and my father don’t — well, they are not such friends as 1 
wish they were. I think — 1 suppose that must be rather well 
known, and so there is no harm in my telling you that much, al- 
though 1 have only known you a week.” 

“ A week and two days,” corrected Horace. 

. “ So it is. Do you know, 1 don’t think the days people don’t 
meet count, do they?” 

“ 1 do not quite understand.” 

“ In the growth of friendship.” 

“ I never thought of it before; but, yes, time gives, a sort of ven- 


SILVERMEAD. 


18 

erableness of respectability, and justifies things that nothing else 
can do!” 

” I suppose it does — ” 

“ Yes, one might decently ask a favor of a man one had associ- 
ated with for, say forty hours, if that amount of actual intercourse 
was cut up and spread over a space of six months.” 

“ While, if it was all in a lump,” she said, laughing, “ you would 
rather astonish him.” 

“ Well, probably; and then ” — this Horace spoke in a softened 
voice--” there is another reason. Do you. not think that when two 
people, especially a man and a woman — well — like each other — ” 

” Yes — ” 

” That their friendship or affection grows and strengthens between 
each time they meet, by both having thought of one another— 1 
mean long and fervently — in the interval.” 

” 1 am quite sure it does,” murmured Lilia, carried away. ” Oh 
how much easier it is, as well as more pleasant, to think out any- 
thing two together than by one’s self!” 

” Y'es, 1 am sure it is; but for that there must be sympathy.” 

“Of course. Why, with an unsympathetic companion all my - 
little stock of ideas would evaporate directly.” 

” 1 hope you will let me think out lots of subjects with you, Miss 
Harding. 1 assure you, with the slightest encouragement, 1 shall 
become quite a philosopher.” 

“Oli, not yet,” she laughed; ”1 thought philosophers were al- 
ways old men. ’ ’ 

” No, for sometimes they are young women.” 

“ And will you teach me to be one?” 

He laughed. 

** Yes, if 1 may be the two other things which old Pope joins 
with it.” 

” And they are — ” 

” Guide and friend.” 

” You know 1 will let you be these.” 

“ Then I am happy — for the present.” 

A rapid heavy female step was now heard, and Miss Laffinch ap- 
proached them. The ungainly spinster hated all young men of all 
periods, because those of her youth had failed to appreciate her angu- 
lar charms. To be sure, she did not bloom in the days of aBstheti- 
cism. 

“ Mr. Brudenell,” she snapped out, “ we all want to know what 
you have done with Miss Harding, for we have wanted her to play 
and sing, and a thousand things?” 

” Does gran’ma want me?” cried Lilia, whose conscience now 
told her that she had been away rather long. 

” Most certainly she does, and I fancy I’ve caught my death of 
cold coming to fetch you.” 

The trio whom our lovers had found in the conservatory must 
long since have departed unobserved. On now reaching the draw- 
ing-room, Camilla was relieved to find the formality of her rentree 
broken and unnoticed, owing to the general break up that was 
going on. 


SILVERMEAD. 19 

“1 have carried my point,” said Lady Fouroaks, kissing her; 
“ you come fo me on Tuesday for the Hasham ball.” 

“ No! Oh, you are good, dear Lady Fouroaks ” — and there vras 
a depth of feeling in those few words which struck her ladyship’s 
sharp ear, as having something more than mere gratitude about 
them. 

“ Then we shall meet .on Wednesday after all,” said Brudenell, 
as he wished Lilia good night, and pressed her hand as much and as 
long as ever he dared. She could not forego returning that welcome 
pressure, and with a mutual glance, which kept them both awake 
halt the night, they parted. How much and how little does a 
squeeze of the hand imply! 1 believe it is constitutional with some 
people. Many very well-bred women squeeze everybody’s hand; 
others seem afraid to squeeze anyone’s whatever, especially if they 
care for them. 1 do not think you can tell anything from a hand- 
shake, unless you know the shaker well, and watch her with others. 
It is with some a conscious, but, probably with most people a gener- 
ally unconscious act. We may, however, assume that with lovers it 
is never performed absently, and that its chief characteristic is ap- 
preciation. 

Another moment, and Lady Prendergast and her granddaughter 
are alone. Whether the old lady was too tired with her exertions, 
or had not at all responded to Miss Laffinch’s efforts to make her 
angry at Lilia’s prolonged absence, certain it is that the kiss of 
peace, on wishing “ good-niglit,” was exchanged with neither more 
nor less affection than usual, and unaccompanied by any reprimand 
whatever. 


CHAPTER 1Y. 

Sir Howard Brudenell, of Massing Grange, sat at breakfast 
opposite his nephew on the day following Lady Prendergast’s din- 
ner party, and it struck Horace that it was long since he had seen 
his uncle in such good humor. 

The baronet, without being by any means a bad-hearted man, 
possessed in a high degree, and one could hardly tell how, the 
knack, quality or talent, if you will, of inspiring awe. Whether he 
sought this result or not, it would have been difficult to say. Proba- 
bly lie could not help it, and probably too, he had no desire to help 
it, since this feeling, which he universally infused more or less 
among all classes, gave him a sense of power to which he had long 
since grown accustomed, and he constantly found it a most useful 
weapon to his hand. Why he should be feared, since he never did 
anything terrible, it is not so easy to explain. Perhaps because he 
always looked as if he could. His abilities were no doubt consider- 
able— as great, 1 should say, as can well be found in a man w ho is 
utterly devoid of wit or the sense of humor. This great want is 
often in a manner made up for by the additional dignity it confers. 
Sir Howard did not pat on dignity, and that is why his dignity was 
so dignified. Tall, slim, though broad of shoulder, and very erect, 
with high aristocratic features and a capacious forehead, from 
which the light brown hair had somewhat receded, he was the kind 
of person about whom everybody is sure to ask, “ Who is that?” 


SILVERMEAD. 


20 

He was very proud — in a good sense — intensely honorable, severe 
with himself as with others, and may be said to have been feared 
from his good qualities, just as Miss Laffinch was for her bad ones. 

He had been defeated at the last election by a Radical, after repre- 
senting his county in the Conservative interest for fifteen years. JNot 
a frequent speaker, and one who would have been dull if less scru- 
pulously brief, he always commanded the attention of tue House. 
Since the loss of his seat he had written some laborious and useful 
political pamphlets. > . 

His pursuits are literary; his recreation, whist. He rides for 
exercise, but is no sportsman. When he stays with a Cabinet minis- 
ter, where parliamentary affairs are the sole topic of conversation and 
the evenings are devoted to cards, he is deemed a most agreeable 
man; but Lady Fouroaks, with her usual recklessness, having tried 
him for one of her rackety parties, poor Sir Howard proved so 
dripping a blanket that he spoiled the whole affair. When her lady- 
ship strove to break through the formality which his presence im- 
posed by some of her madcap sayings, Sir Howard’s grave stare of 
surprise and perplexity were too much for even her saucy elasticity, 
and the rest of the party were afraid to laugh. The young couples 
wouldn’t flirt, the children refused to make a noise; in a word, the 
experiment turned out a disastrous failure, and was never repeated. 

“ So you seem to have had a pleasant party, Horace,” says Sir 
Howard this morning, pouring out the tea. 

“Yes, uncle; at least, I enjoyed it.” 

“ [ am glad you are fond of ladies’ society; ladies, 1 mean, such 
as — with the exception, that is, of Lady Fouroaks, who is slangy 
and eccentric — you meet at Silvermead. It is desirable at your time 
of life, softens the manners, and prevents a young man’s tastes from 
degenerating. ’ ’ 

“ 1 am one with you there, uncle; you never knew me lose a 
chance of going out.” 

“ Quite right, quite right, always providing it does not interfere 
with your more serious duties, or ” — and this was spoken with spe- 
cial point — “ when there is some special object to be gained.” 

Horace looked up from his omelette au jus , repeating, “ Special 
object.” 

“ Yes, you do not understand. The fact is, 1 have been for some 
little time wishing to speak to you on a subject —hem — a subject 
which I hope and trust we shall agree upon. ’ ’ 

“ I have no doubt, uncle — ” 

“ Allow me. It is one upon which at your age you have proba- 
bly never thought seriously, I mean. I quite admit that under or- 
dinary conditions such a step would be premature; but I have lived 
to learn that the great opportunities in any of our lives are few — 
very few.” 

There was a pause. Horace, of course, had nothing to say. Sir 
Howard was meditating in what form he would couch his proposi- 
tion. 

Presently he said, 

“Horace,” and then he heaved a sigh, probably of anxiety, for 
this project - was very near his heart, “ Horace, 1 wish you to 
marry. ’ ’ 


SILVERMEAD. 


21 


Now, if Brudenell had never met Miss Harding, the chances are 
that he would have received this startling announcement without 
any outward sign and with but slight inward commotion. As it 
was, as he had been lying awake thinking of her half the night, he 
rushed to the sideboard under pretense of cold beef, but really to 
hide his guilty blushes. His sharp uncle had, however, caught sight 
of them. “ O-ho,” he thought, “ in love already. This is more or 
less than 1 hoped for.” 

Horace now returned with his plate loaded, as though to protest 
he was no lover, and his face nearly restored to its usual color. He 
thought he would take the thing lightly. 

“ Well, uncle, marriage is a very good thing in its way, just for a 
change, you know. I don’t say nay.” 

” ISo levity, 1 beg,” said Sir Howard, drawing himself up, while 
his face fell; “ 1 am serious,” and to do him justice he looked it. 

“ Dear uncle, 1 am all respectful attention, upon my honor;” and 
so he was. He had uttered his former sentence more in shyness 
than anything else, if the truth be told. 

“ And so you ought to be, sir.” 

Sir Howard evidently looked upon marriage as some wonderful 
indulgence he was allowing his late brother’s son ; like promising a 
real hunter or a real gun to a school boy. 

“ The fact is,” he proceeded — and here his eyes went down upon 
the tablecloth — “ it would be a great relief to my mind.” Another 
awful sigh. “ 1 want — 1 want to be quite free to do as 1 please, or 
may please later on— about marryiug again myself. I feel it is a 
duty to see that the title and estate be carried on. If you did not 
exist, or if you were averse to marriage, 1 should hold it incumbent, 
upon me to — to again seek a wife. It is not my wont, as you must 
be aware, to be confidential with any one/for, as a rule, it is a mis- 
take to tell any human soul that which ail the world may not hear] 
but this is an exceptional case— a very exceptional case. You will 
naturally respect my confidence.” 

“ Uncle, I am sure you know you may trust me.” 

“ I believe it. Know then that 1 wish to be equally free to marry 
or not, and this, if I please, even after you have taken a wife, with- 
out seeing your future reduced thereby to a life of comparative 
poverty.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ You must marry money.” 

If Horace had turned scarlet just now, his countenance at this an- 
nouncement grew very pale. Money! How horrid the word 
sounded. He had always heard of it when coupled with marriage 
as meaning a parvenu’s daughter, with her shoulders in her ears — an 
old woman with a face like a tipsy cook’s, and such like horrors. 

“ And yet,” he reflects, “ and yet, why should not gold be com- 
bined with better things; why not even with the divine Camilla her- 
self? 1 have certainly never coupled the two thoughts until this 
moment; but, dear me, Lady Prendergast has no son, she seems rich, 
a few thousands would do no harm; there is no absolute incongruity 
between a pretty woman and a banker’s account; Jet us listen to 
uncle, let us listen to uncle.” 

Uncle said: 


22 


SILVERMEAD. 


“I ha.e for sometime been looking about, you see; although, 
money was indispensable to my ends, many other things were also 
highly desirable.” 

“ Come,” thought the boy. 

“ Pedigree, station, the utmost respectabilhy, not only of the lady, 
but her connections; a good education, some personal attractions; 
that she should belong, if possible, to this part of the world, as 
affording better opportunity of winning her.” 

“But,” said Horace, to himself, “he is describing Miss Hard- 
ing.” 

And his face lit up in a way that made the stately disposer of his 
young destinies feel quite sanguine. 

“ 1 should, 1 need not say, make you a fair allowance, and, for 
the present, at least, this house would be your home. 1 say, for the 
present. 1 cannot too severely condemn the conduct of certain large 
proprietors 1 have known, who, because they have no immediate 
wish to marry, raise hopes in their heirs presumptive, which too 
often prove fallacious. My foolish friend, Lord Afferley, for in- 
stance, always walked his cousin, young Maturin, over the estate, 
saying, ‘ Look at it, my boy, love it, for it will all be yours; yes, I 
shall never marry, I’m getting old, et cetera, ’ and after going on this 
way till he was turned seventy, the old idiot married a dressmaker 
in Leamington, and had seven bo 3 T s.” 

” And what became of Maturin?” 

“ He drank himself to death within two years. Highly improper, 
of course, but old Afferley was partly to blame for it. However, we 
digress ; 1 only wanted to point out that I have never given you 
reason to believe — ” 

“My dear uncle, in the first place, 1 hope j T ou ’ll live for ever, 
and--” 

“ Oh, my dear Horace, all that means nothing; but, answer me, 1 
have never led you to suppose — ” 

“ That 1 was your heir? Never by word or deed.” 

“ 1 should have deeply regretted jour forming any ungrounded 
hope — ” 

‘ 1 never have, on my word.” 

And the boy spoke the truth. 

“ Very well, then,” said his uncle, *' we may now proceed to the 
lady. I think 1 have found her, and, what is more, that she already 
looks upon you with a favoring eye.” 

Horace’s neart now beat so, he was afraid his uncle would hear it. 

“ Come, can 3 ^ou not guess?” 

“ 1— no, uncle, I really can’t think of an 3 r body.” 

He was too honorable to admit that he thought any woman cared 
for him, much less Camilla, even if he had begun to suspect as 
much. 

‘‘You met her last night.” 

“ Indeed!” Kettledrums began to roll in his ears. 

“ 1 have heard you say she was very handsome.” 

” Yes?” 

“ Come, come, sir; you must know 1 allude to Lady Susan 
Graye— ” 

“ -Lady Susan— Graye!” ejaculated poor Horace, with a look of 


SILVERMEAD. 


23 


uncontrollable dismay, wbicli utterly bewildered Sir Howard. It 
was evident the proposition did not smile at him, as the French say. 

“ Well, what on earth is the matter with you?” he asked; “ has 
your good fortune made you dumb, or— or have you any fault to 
find with the lady, sir?” 

“ Uncle, 1 — you are quite wrong, utterly mistaken.” 

“Wrong — mistaken! 1, sir!” 

This was not spoken loudly, or with any heat, but with the most 
magnificent majesty and repose. 

T mean— I assure you— I know the lady does not honor me with 
the slightest preference — ” 

“Horace, you are a boy. How, I ask you, could any well- 
brought up girl, especially one of Lady Susan’s rank, show you pre- 
ference before you paid her any attention? In that sense, de 
Sevigne was right, TJne demoiselle lien nee n'a jamais de V amour. 
Moreover, do you think me— me, capable of sending my nephew on 
a wild-goose chase? I know what 1 am about.” 

“May I venture to ask what has led you to believe that Lady 
Susan G-raye cares for me?” 

“You may— ‘ Cares for you,’ is too strong a term. That she 
looks upon you -with sufficient favor for it to be highly probable that 
you may win her, I have the best reason to suppose. I have spoken 
to her father.” 

“ You have spoken,” exclaimed Horace, again changing color, 
and grasping the edge of the table with both hands. Needless to say 
he had long since given up completing his breakfast. 

“ I have spoken to Lord Caulfield on my own account, certainly; 
but you need not look so tragical over it, nephew. 1 said you knew 
nothing of the matter.” 

“ And what did the marquis say?” 

“ Bay? Why, just what 1 expected. That you might win her if 
you could, and that she would not say you nay. That he liked you 
very much— hoped I would not refuse a peerage a second time, and 
so forth. This was over a week ago. He never was the man to 
keep anything to himself for five minutes, and accordingly Lady 
Susan must have known all about it for some days. If she made 
herself as agreeable to you as ever last night, it is as much as to say, 
* Win me.’ ” 

“ I — 1 am simply astounded.” 

“ And so you ought to be, sir. A marquis’s daughter, young and 
beautiful, with sixty thousand pounds dow r n, and ever so much 
more some day; by Jove, sir ” — Sir Howard very seldom said, “ by 
Jove!” — “ it is enough to take the breath aw T ay of a better man than 
either of us,” and the baronet, who had refused a peerage through 
pride, was actually so excited for once that he rose from his chair 
and took t tvo turns up and down the Turkey carpet. Then, having 
rung for the butler and ascertained that his agent was waiting in the 
library, he stalked out of the room. 

Here was a position for a young man who fancied that he had just 
fallen desperately in love! Here, indeed, was one of those obstacles 
which test a passion, and counteract any such enemy to its growth 
ns, for instance, Camilla’s too favorable acceptance of his attentions. 
He rightly supposed that after so momentous an announcement, Sir 


24 


SILVERMEAD. 


Howard would hardly expect him to assist at the pending discussion 
with his chief, nor is "it probable that his assistance on questions of 
farms, timber, and fat beasts would, on this particular morning, have 
proved of any appreciable value to those two grave men. Accord- 
ingly, he betook himself to a pipe and the woods — tobacco pipe of 
course, and throwing himself down among the primroses by a clear 
little pebbly stream, for the sun was already warm, he proceeded to 
review the situation. 

That Lady Susan Graye was a parti to turn the head of any aver- 
age young fellow, was not to be denied. The man she married 
could not fail to be the envied among the envied. A finer-looking 
woman to sit at the head of your table, or to hang jewels upon, could 
hardly be found; and yet she was not the sort of being that men, a& 
a rule, fall in love with ; they hardly dare. 

Then she had no individuality, no imagination, and, while fairly 
endowed with brains and more than fairly educated, was quite as de- 
void of real wit, or the sense of humor even, as Sir Howard himself. 
Of what men so enthusiastically call “devil,” it is needless to say 
she was as innocent as the angels. 

While young Bruclenell thus ran over her “ points,” as he called 
them, in his mind, he arrived at the conclusion that he would have 
found it hard work to fall in love with the Lady Susan, even if his 
affections had been free as air. 

And then there was Miss Harding! 

Ah! how easy it was to love there. Why he felt she was just 
galloping away with his heart. Remember that he saw her in very 
different colors to those in which I have endeavored to sketch her to 
you. The commonest phrase she uttered was, to Horace, full of 
sparkle and of charm. She could not have made him think her 
stupid had she tried with all her little might, nor her company any- 
thing but delightful. 

‘‘Ah, me,” he sighed, watching the wreaths of smoke as they 
rose perpendicularly in the stirless air, “ there is intoxication, indeed! 

1 wonder, as everything is balanced or compensated in this funny 
world, I wonder what horrible trial is in reserve for the fellow who 
gets her — I or another — gout, blindness, lunacy, or what!” He was 
surprised to find that until this morning, until his uncle had rammed 
Lady Susan down his throat, as it were, he had not half realized 
what it would be either to win or lose Camilla Harding 

“ Camilla, Camilla!” 

Oh, he was getting very bad indeed. But what could he do? 
Granting her to be all that was most superlative — considering that as 
a point settled— what could he do? It was out of the question to 
offend his uncle. Without Sir Howard he is nothing, has nothing. 
But stay. Is it certain that this little beauty may not be nearly as 
good a match as her rival? The only grandchild of rich Lady Pren- 
dergast, might she not be heiress to Silvermead, and who knows how 
much beside? All this must be ascertained without delay. But 
how? If he questions any of Miss Harding’s friends she may hear 
of it again, and it is not easy to pump Sir Howard without awaking 
his suspicions. Still, no doubt, the thing can be managed soon. 
Perhaps his chief, as he calls him, Sir Howard’s swell agent, from 
whom Horace is learning his business, may enlighten him. Yes. 


SILVERMEAD. 


25 


"but when? He wants to know this hour, this minute; and wishing, 
almost with an oath, that there were no such things in life as sus- 
pense or delay, the young man springs up and walks about. 

“ That was very strange about her father,” he muses, “ her look- 
ing so confused, alarmed even, when 1 alluded to him. A mystery 
there, of some kind, I'll be bound. And if there is, does that make 
the daughter any the less charming? He is not a felon, 1 suppose; 
not that, if he had poisoned his grandmother, 1 should be a whit less 
in love with Camilla.” 

And so in musing and speculation, in wanderings of the most 
ferociously solitary sort, of much smoking and little eating, he wore 
away the day. This kind of fever is common to many varieties of 
love: to the bad and the good, the shallow as well as the deep, the 
selfish even as the noble. It is no great sign of anything except 
spooniness. It is so like the beginning of an illness, when the best 
of doctors declares it is too early to say whether the patient is in for 
a slight or very serious attack, much less what special form the mal- 
ady may assume. 

Horace was beginning to realize that he could not keep Miss Hard- 
ing out of his head for two consecutive minutes; but he was not sure 
that on this account his passion would be eternal and exclusive. 
Now she was quite sure. There was the difference, and it was 
chiefly owing to the one being a man, the other a woman. While a 
woman loves, no matter how, she always believes she will never love 
again. 

Somehow or other, on the following evening, Horace had wan- 
dered in his reveries, and de facto so much further than usual, that 
he found himself at night-fall not two miles from Paradise — I mean 
Silvermead. His uncle had run up to Town and he had had a soli- 
tary dinner, with the evening all to himself. He really had not taken 
that direction designedly, but intuitively, as the needle turns to 
the pole. However, finding himself so near, and the night being 
again moonlight and balmy, one of those nights, in short, when the 
very thought of bed is revolting, Horace decided that he would push 
on and refresh himself with a glimpse of his beloved’s roof. " He 
knew enough of the ground to be aware how very easily this wish 
could be gratified. On three sides the house was unapproachable by 
stealth. Stately flower gardens and a lawn or two separating it from 
the open deer park, with its lake, ancient trees and other beauties. 
But at the back all was wood and shrubbery to within fifty yards of. 
the very walls; the trees, though small, growing with great luxuri- 
ance, and as you went further "and further off, they assumed larger 
proportions, and finally merged into an extensive and tangled wood, 
some half mile away, known by the appropriate name of the “ Wil- 
derness,” and covering fully a thousand acres of ground. This had 
been, in the reign of the male proprietors of Silvermead, well stocked 
with game. Lady Prendergast, however, did not preserve, and there 
was thus no danger of our hero being surprised by jealous keepers 
on their rounds, who would have doubtless proved skeptical of 
Horace’s love tale, even were it conceivable that he should have 
confided such an idyl to their rough ears. 

The small clear space, then, on this, the south side of the house, 
which intervened between it and the already leafy trees, happened to 


SILYEEMEAD. 


26 

consist of Camilla’s own garden, where she constantly took delight 
to delve and to rake with her own fairy hands — well gloved of 
course. From it she could ascend by a winding outdoor stone stair- 
case to the terrace upon which her own little boudoir and bedroom 
looked out side by side. Both terrace and stair were more than half 
covered with moss, ivy, and creepers. In the center of the little lawn 
was a fountain and gold-fish, and between the only two trees per- 
mitted to grow there hung a swing, speaking of the still half-child- 
isli tastes of the youthful owner. Of these details young Brudenell 
of course knew nothing; but he had noted, as he drove away after 
the dinner party, how the woods grew up almost to the very win- 
dows on one side, and he had heard the point discussed on that oc- 
casion between Lady Susan and her left-hand neighbor, as to whether 
the proximity of so much foliage were wiiolesome or the reverse. 

“ Who knows,” he said to himself, “ perhaps 1 shall get a glimpse 
of her.” 

Not that he had the slightest intention of penetrating as near as 
the foliage gave him protection. Remember, the month was April, 
and however forward the season, you can see through branches in 
quite a different way to wdiat they permit of a month later. It is diffi- 
cult to describe on paper, but as Horace approached, lie found 
several open, or nearly open patches of ground, whence he could see 
very well without running much risk of being seen, and he grad- 
ually drew nearer and nearer, until he guessed himself at no more 
than three hundred yards from the nearest spot* of the little sacred 
pasture; and being on the brow of a small eminence, he had quite a 
commanding view of nearty the whole of it. As if to his very wish, 
out comes Camilla to bid good-night to the flow T ers, flipping down 
the steps without a hat, and his young long sight fancies it detects a 
basket on her arm, and Rolfe the deer-hound by her side. He con- 
sults his watch : it is half-past ten. So he thinks this is doubtless 
her habit: “ I shall at least know liow r to have a peep at her, or at 
any rate, if 1 am disappointed, I shall see lief shadow on the blind. 
Only next time I will dare to make bold with uncle Howard's opera 
glasses.” 

Siie trips about from bed to bed, and still he is too far to hear her. 
albeit he has crept persistently forward; he fancies she is warbling 
some well-known melouy as she roams. Now, down goes the basket 
and she fiies to the swing and sways away with a will. Hark f 
There her voice is high and clear, calling to her shaggy hound, who 
barks joyously ia answer. Presently lights appear above, a door- 
wiudow is thrown widely back, and her maid, for it must be she, 
calls out to the young lady. The words do not reach him, but the 
voice is shrill and imperious, evidently that of a woman no longer 
young, and who is urging the thoughtless girl to hasten in out of the 
cold and dew. Doubtless the authority of “ gran’ma ” is evoked, 
as obedience follows within a reasonable time; and with steps far 
slower than those with which she came down, Camilla, flower-laden, 
now remounts the picturesque o?d stair Her hair has fallen down 
during the swinging, and streams and gleams in all directions, hang- 
ing like a glory about her. As she reaches the center of the terrace, 
just opposite the open casement, she stops and leans over the parapet 
to take one long last look at the bright moon. There she remains 


SILVERMEAD. 


27 

some seconds, motionless as a picture she so resembles, and then, 
hacking slowly, her gaze still on the heavens, she vanishes fiom 
sight. 

Something makes Horace dare to hope that in that solemn interval, 
she has murmured his name in love. 


CHAPTER V. 

Nothing of much moment occurred between this evening and the 
hall at Hasham. There have been a couple of wet days, and on the 
one or two occasions when the weather was fine enough to tempt 
Horace to renew his adventure, if such it can be called, in the neigh- 
borhood of his lady’s chamber, the cruel uncle had stepped in to pre- 
vent it, by retaining him to make a fourth at the whist-table, an 
elderly colonel from the Portland and Miss Lafiincli making up the 
party. Though generally fond of the game, the love-sick boy now 
found it almost beyond his self-command to give the cards so much 
attention as to save him from utter disgrace. "On these occasions Sir 
Howard and the London Colonel always played against each other, 
that they might adhere to their usual points, pounds and no bet, and 
merely cut to see who should win the lady. The latter and Horace 
were accordingly always in opposition, theii stakes being the mild 
shillings and half-crowns — that is, of course, shilling points and lialf- 
a-crown on the rubber. Each cut was for the double rubber. Now, 
whist is no doubt a very pleasant institution in itself for those who 
like a highly studious recreation, but it does not mix well with other 
things — with music or conversation, for instance — and least of all 
does it assimilate with love. Love is essentially an uncalculating 
joy. If } r ou try to make whist an uncalculating joy you will soon 
find it merge into the prosaic sorrow of counting out your money 
into the palm of your enemy — never an exhilarating process, as 
Horace discovered, even when enlivened by watching the gloatiog eyes 
of the greedy Laftinch, who clawed in every sixpence with a delight 
too eloquent to be veiled. This wily old campaigner had read the 
young lovers like a book the day she dined at Silvermead; but she 
kept the discovery to use as might be advantageous. Every mistake 
the young man made these evenings at whist meant money in her 
pocket, and she contented herself for the present with that pecuniary 
result of his heartache. However, on the last occasion that they 
thus met, the elderly spinster found herself alone with the nephew 
of her host for a few minutes before the game began, as Sir Howard 
and the colonel were still sitting over their port, an amusement which 
always bored Horace beyond endurance. With very good sense, 
the uncle never insisted on his presence longer than he pleased after 
dinner, and Horace would have preferred the drawing-room, even 
with Miss Laffinch in it, on any ordinary occasion, to the ponderous 
wine and more ponderous talk of the dining-room. But to-night he 
rather sought her than otherwise, thinking she might chance to give 
him some of the information he had found no opportunity of gleaning 
elsewhere. At first he beat about the bush for some little time, hop- 
ing that Miss Lafiincli might refer, of her own accord, to Lady 


28 


SILYEEMEAD. 


Prendergast or lier grandchild ; but no, it seemed that she could talk 
of everything but Silvermead. So at last he made a bold plunge. 

“ Have you seen anything of our friends since the dinner?” 

“ Oh dear, yes; you know I live close by. If your dear uncle was 
not good enough to send the brougham for me I could never come 
here in this pleasant sort of way.” 

“ And how are they?” 

“ Well, dear Lady Prendergast is not quite the thing — coughing 
rather. 1 want her to see my doctor; he is so — ” 

‘ * Ha, ’ ’ interrupted Horace, “lam very sorry— and Miss Harding ? ’ * 

“ Oh, radiant! — quite radiant, 1 assure you! and so she ought to 
be, if what 1 hear is true. A marriage on the tapis.” 

“ A marriage,” gasped Horace, with ill-concealed concern. 

“ Dear! Haven’t you heard? Young Cyril Acton, Lord Ham- 
mersley’s eldest son, staying at the de Basle’s. An enormous 
match.” 

“ And — and where did they meet?” 

” Lady Prendergast and Camilla drove over and lunched tlieie the 
day after you were at Silvermead; but it appears the two young 
people had met a good deal abroad, when — when she was with her 
unfortunate father, you know; and that it is quite a case.” 

“ Are you sure of this?” 

“ Why, the thing is plain enough. He rides over to see her every 
day ; and people even go so far as to whisper — ” 

” Yes?” 

“ That — but that is mere gossip; and I don’t believe a word of it, 
upon my honor. I am no scandal-monger.” 

” What do you mean?” asked the young man, almost brutally. 

“ Nay, I’ll say no more; bat as for their loving each other, it is 
enough to see them together — as I have twice done — to have no 
shadow of doubt on the matter.” 

Throughout Miss Laffinch had affected total blindness as to young 
Brudenelrs interest and anxiety. 

“ One thing at least you will tell me, Miss Laffinch,” pursued the 
poor boy; “you said, ‘her unfortunate father.’ Wliat did you 
mean?” 

“ Why, only that—” but here they were interrupted by the en- 
trance of the other two, and as they all moved to the whist-table, 
without loss of time, for it was already late, Miss Laffinch chuckled 
as she told herself — 

“ If the young fool counts his trumps to-night, I know nothing of 
human nature.” 

And she was a true prophet, and won thirty-four and sixpence 
from the young fellow she had mystified; and, what is more, slept 
well after it. Indeed, it is difficult to say what sin Miss Laffinch 
would not have committed for thirty-four shillings and sixpence, 
and slept well after. 

And now the night of the ball lias actually come, and Sir Howard, 
who by-and-by is going to play dummy with the colonel and Miss 
Laffinch, takes advantage of the few minutes he is alone with Horace 
before dinner to give him some advice. 

“ Now, mind, Horace, 1 expect great things of you to-niglit. Re- 
member, it is no wild goose-chase, for 1 have prepared the ground.’ 3 


SILVERMEAD. 


29 


As the nephew hasn’t the least idea what to answer, he says: 

“ Yes, uncle.” 

“ So no nonsensical shilly-shallying. Go in for her in earnest, my 
dear boy. Let there be no sort of mistake as to what you mean. In 
all the affairs of life humming and hawing is of no use — of no sort 
or manner of use.” 

“ Very well, uncle,” said Horace, curling up his little silky mus- 
tache before the glass — a habit with him and perhaps a few other 
young men — “ 1 will ask Lady Susan to dance as soon as she arrives, 
and then — I’ll ask her again, and 1— 1 suppose — ” 

“ Well?” 

“ 1 must rather make love to her mother as well,” and he looked 
quite Macliiavelian as he said this. 

“ To be sure, to be sure, ’ ’ said Sir Howard, delighted, ‘ ‘ never 
forget a dash of the filial, you know.” 

“ Exactly.” quoth the pupil. 

‘ ‘ At the same time you must not make Lady Susan at all conspic- 
uous. The room must know nothing of your pretensions. That 
would be bad taste, and therefore a mistake; never be premature. 
You must dance with others.” 

” I will, oh, 1 will,” replied Horace, blushing like a girl, but with 
his face well to the looking-glass. He now seemed dissatisfied wdth 
the set of his tie. 

“ Don’t forget to ask Miss Harding. Remember you dined there 
the other day.” 

“Ah! by-tlie-bye, I 'won’t,” said the artful youth. “Very nice 
little girl is Miss Harding, a very nice little girl, now that you men- 
tion her; is not she a great heiress, too?” 

“ Oh, you mean from Lady Prendergast. I will tell you exactly 
how that is. ttilvermead, you see, is about ten thousand a year, 
and—” 

But the fates were against poor Horace whenever he sought in- 
formation concerning the prospects of his inamorata. The inevitable 
old spinster was here announced, the colonel strolled in from dress- 
ing, and the four adjourned to dinner without further ado. 

It was about ten o’clock when Horace mounted the dogcart for 
his seven mile drive to the ball — a matter of little more than half-an- 
hour with the active piece of trotting cattle which stood between the 
shafts. Her dam was an American professional, who had done the 
mile in two-thirty in days when there were no Dexters or Flora 
Temples, and she derived size and undying “ pluck ” from the En- 
glish thoroughbred she owned for a sire. 

When the mind is at tension there is something especially con- 
genial in driving rapidly through the air, especially if you yourself 
handle the ribbons. Although young Brudenell flattered himself 
that he had shown much self-command, and, indeed, consummate 
subterfuge in his preprandial interview w 7 ith his relative — why are 
very young people always so proud of successful deceit? it is far 
more difficult to be candid — he is nevertheless, to-niglit, in a very 
fever of conflicting emotions, with his temper very decidedly upon 
what in slang phraseology is termed ‘‘ the rampage.” It would 
have faied ill indeed with a lazy or obstinate brute had he been driv- 
ing such, but Continental was the direct opposite of either, and Hor- 


SILVERMEAD. 


30 

ace, for sole solace, ever and anon raised his “ jimcrqw ” from his 
hot brow with his right hand, innocent of a whip, as lie dashed 
along through the night. 

"Was this true about young Acton? He would lose no time in ascer- 
taining that, TV hat was the fellow like, he wished to know. If 
Miss Harding had known him long and engaged her affections to 
him abroad, well and good; only, what a consummate little flirt she 
must be then to have carried on with him, Horace, as she had done 
on the only two occasions when they had met. Yes, really, only 
two— could it be possible that so much could have come of two 
meetings? To be sure he had seen her that night from the wood. 
Horror, if when she gazed up so sentimentally at the moon before 
vanishing from his sight, it was another name than his which flut* 
ered on her blossom-like lips, and soared away to heaven— that of 
his rival — of Acton! 

But why distress himself? He would now soon find out the truth. 
Miss Laffinch was well known for a poisonous old cat. How he 
could ever speak to her, except to ask what trumps were, he didn’t 
know. 

And what was his mission to-night? 

To make love to a woman he did not care for in the least. Ambi- 
tious as he was — ay, and, out with it, anxious to be rich — he had no 
stomach for the deed to-night. 

If indeed Miss Harding was wavering, if she really had begun to 
care for him somewhat, and was hesitating between the old love and 
the new, then indeed his obeying his uncle’s orders and making the 
running, as it is called, with Lady Susan, might, in very sooth, 
jump alike with his own interests and inclinations. 

But the battle Horace had to fight, or chose to thipk he had to 
fight, to-night was one concerning which it was bootless to laydown 
any precise plan until he should view the ground. One thing only 
Horace determined, and that resolutely, for he mistrusted his dis- 
turbed and somewhat violent mood — lie would be prudent. Oh, but 
more than prudent. Let matters wag how they might, he would say 
nothing to-night, either to the woman he loved or to the one he was 
ordered to love, that could in any degree compromise or bind him. 
No, he would feel his way, that was all. When driving home some 
hours later, Horace Brudenell should not tell himself that which he 
would allow no other man to tell him even if he deserved it — that he 
had made a fool of himself. On so much he was fixed as granite. 

But here he is close to the door of the little town hall where the 
dance, for it is little more, takes place. There are two or three car- 
riages and a couple of flies ” before him, but, handing the reins to 
the groom, he jumps down and threads his way on foot through the 
dense little crowd of gazers who cluster like bees about each side of 
the entrance. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Horace found the rooms already well filled and dancing in full 
swing. The locale was unusually well suited to the occasion, for be- 
side the main hall or ball room, there were sundry other and much 
smaller apartments, used on work days as municipal offices, but now 


SILYERMEAD. 


31 


not untastefully arranged as boudoirs, resting places, flirting boxes, 
or. to speak plainly, mantraps, by the simple aid of a good many 
yards of white and pink calico and a few branches of hawthorn 
bloom and lilac. There was a buffet in a long passage-like chamber 
throughout the night, and at half-past twelve a bond fide supper, with, 
real champagne — for which the committee had contracted at sixty- 
four shillings a dozen, a good price for average Sillery— and all in- 
cluded in the guinea ticket. 

Horace threaded his way through the ball-room, between the re- 
volvers and the wallflowers, and, not seeing anybody connected with 
his present circumstances, except indeed some of theFouroaks’ party 
at the upper end of the room, among whom Camilla was conspicu- 
ous by her absence, he did what 1 am afraid is not a very interesting 
or hero-like thing: he went through to the buffet to indulge in that 
cup of tea from which his early flight from home had debarred him. 
This spot was also well filled, chiefly with old gentlemen and chap- 
erons, many of whom he knew and exchanged a word with as he 
passed. Presently, as he took his tea, he was seized upon by a Pick- 
wickian-looking man, a town councilor and notorious bore "and but- 
ton-holer, who plunged at once into politics in general, and Sir 
Howard Brudenell’s views in particular. Young Horace, however, 
was not a good man to bore. He held that a bore deserved no quar- 
ter, and was, in fact, a being who placed himself beyond the pale of 
consideration and good manners. So he contented himself with 
listening attentively to every one around him, except good Mr. Twit- 
in gton — a large wool merchant by profession — merely deigning every 
now and then to let drop, “ Ha, really,” or, “ Don’t know.” Pres- 
ently the word Silvermead, uttered rather low just behind him, at- 
tracted his wide-open ears. Half turning for a moment, he saw that 
the speaker was no other than little Dr. McFinn, the chief local 
practitioner, a fearful gossip and busybody, who, notwithstanding a 
large practice and considerable natural acuteness, had the reputation 
of knowing everybody’s business better than his own. McFinn, 
although he held up promiscuous drinking to execration, both 
socially and professionally, was yet what he vulgarly termed, “ fond 
of his whack ” at dinner, which in plain English meant that he was 
seldom quite the same man after that meal as before it. 

The little doctor’s especial hobby is matchmaking, and he so far 
rides- it to death, especialy -when in his cups, that he will assure the 
most hopeless individual, male or female — a creature devoid of 
means, attraction, connection, brains, in short, everything — that he 
or she might be settled very comfortably if they would but bestir 
themselves and take McFinn for a guide. To-night, for instance, 
he is addressing a shy and mealy young man of a horribly unripe- 
looking three-and-twenty. The lad does not give you the idea of 
being anybody, or having anything, and, to do him justice, he seems 
utterly unpretending; but the little doctor has got him tight by the 
shoulder with his left hand, while he keeps tossing off uncounted 
glasses of sherry with his right — what he calls his “ after dinner 
whitewash ’’—and, to be sure, it is scarce half-an-hour since he left 
the dining-room of the mayor. He is saying, in a succession of 
what may be termed noisy whispers, interspersed with prolonged 
chuckles— 


32 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ What are ye about? What the divil are all you good-lookin’ 
chaps afther at all? No money? Tush, man, take an heiress then.” 

Here the poor young fellow, who looked rather like a stick of 
asparagus — boiled asparagus, set up on end — uttered something 
-deprecatory. 

“ Why, man,” pursued McFinn, “ the whole place bristles with 
’em, and thej'-’re jist dyin’ to be popped to, and niver an offer. 
Fakes, in old Ireland, it’s tin offers a-day they’d be gettin’. 1 till 
yer in me own country I can mostly tell an heiress a mile away, by 
a partickler shape her mouth gets by for ever repatin’ ‘No!’ 
Chuckle, chuckle.” 

This joke only called up a sickly smile in his hearer. The match- 
maker continued, “ There’s Miss Harding, now — Lady Prendergast’s 
gran ’daughter, as purty a girl as ever you clapped eyes on— sure, 
she’s yonder there this minute, and I’ll introduce you as me partick- 
ler friend. As I was tellin’ yer, the auld lady thinks a world of me, 
and of me skill. I was over there a while ago at Silvermead to see 
her. Well, she’s a good ten thousand a-year, and every penny 
comes to Miss Harding at her death — the Lord spare her these many 
ydars!” and he tossed off another glass of sherry to strengthen the 
blessing. 

“ Miss Harding gets it all — indeed,” said the asparagus, in a voice 
which was not the least sanguine — only bored. 

“ Who the divil ilse?” asked the doctor, triumphantly, taking, 
indeed, his hand tor one moment from the youth’s shoulder, but 
only to bring it down again like an iron claw, as his victim made a 
weak move to escape; “ I tell yer, she’s her only daughter’s only 
child. I never heard talk of any other relatives at all." But come 
on now to the ball-room till 1 introduce yer,” and emptying his ninth 
glass of sherry, the illustrious and omniscient McFinn towed oft his 
protege, to set his monstrous plan in execution. 

When I say ” plan,”-by the by, it was nothing of the sort, but 
just a way he had by which he fancied he made himself vastly 
agreeable to young persons of both sexes in general. Indeed, if 
quite sober, the doctor would hardly have gone so far as to venture 
even to introduce the asparagus to Miss Harding. 

That the fine and refined Brudenell was supremely disgusted with 
what he overheard, it is needless to say. “ How dare that drunken 
little doctor -blackguard— thus he mentally epithetized him — so much 
as breathe the sacred name of his Camilla at all, much less hand her 
about, so to say, to every Dick, Tom, and Harry of his pitiful ac- 
quaintance?” 

Yet, for all his indignation and his burning anxiety to punch the 
free and easy Hibernian’s head for him, Horace had gathered two 
important facts— or so he thought them— from the little doctor’s ex- 
pansiveness. Miss Harding was positively at the ball. Well, since 
it was settled she was to stay at Fouroaks expressly for it, there was 
no reasonable ground to doubt that she would come. Yes, but when 
we are immensely anxious to meet somebody, do you not know that 
there is always a great doubt of our doing so? Few have lived in 
the world even a short time to so little purpose as not to have learned 
to look out for disappoinment, whenever, that is, the heart is nerv- 
-ousty anxious on any given event. 


SILYERMEAD. 


33 

And then, about the money! The great probability was that 
McFinn was right there too. His being a horrid little cad did not 
weaken his evidence. No one heard so much about everybody as 
McFinn. Newsmonger by profession almost, the little man would 
hardly have spoken so positively, exposing himselt to be so easily 
confuted by wrong, and on so important; a matter, unless he were 
pretty sure of the facts. Horace told himself, of course, and hon- 
estly, that, albeit not blind to the advantages of wealth, his chief joy 
at finding Camilla’s prospects so golden was in the escape thereby 
afforded him from the match with his uncle’s nominee; for he hoped 
that if he could show Sir Howard that Lady Prendergast’s heiress 
was as good a match, monetarily speaking, as was the other, the 
baronet might concede to waive the higher rank of Lady Susan in 
order that his nephew’s affections might go with his hand. 

Deep in these thoughts Horace strolled from the buffet, and almost 
unconsciously bent his steps, not to the ball-room, but toward a little 
suite of the smaller apartments, by which you could still gain the 
former by a circuitous route. He had hardly entered the first of 
these when he started violently. Seated alone there, were Camilla 
— an empty cup of tea by her side— and a man whom Horace at once 
knew and felt to be Acton. 

A clown would have darted back as much as to say : 

“Oh, dear me! Two is company, three is none. I wouldn’t 
spoil sport for the world.” 

A better, but still wrong sort of man, would have rushed forward 
and accosted the lady with trepidation and some incoherency; but 
Horace, being the right sort of man, recovered his outward compos- 
ure instanter, by virtue, one may say, of the blood "of his ancestors, 
walked with apparent calmness up to Camilla, and, shaking hands 
with her, said : 

“ How do you do, Miss Harding? 1 am so glad you are here after 
all. I hope you left Lady Prendergast quite well?” 

To which the young lady, who had also changed color on seeing 
Brudenell enter, replied, with cordial demureness : 

“Quite, thank you. How late you have come! I was looking 
for you as 1 danced just now. May I introduce? — Mr. Acton, Mr. 
Brudenell,” and the two young men, who may have been tingling 
to fly at each other’s throats, shook hands at the dictate of beauty, 
as if it gave them both particular pleasure to become acquainted. 

“Is this your first visit to shire?” asked Brudenell, pleas- 

antly. 

“My first, but I hope not my last. Hitherto I have scarcely seen 
anything of the Midland counties.” 

The peerage gives Cyril Acton’s age as twenty-five, but he looks 
decidedly less. Your strongest impression on first meeting him is 
disappointment with yourself at not being pleased. If a young En- 
glish nobleman — and a viscount’s eldest son may surely be called 
one — of remarkably good face and figure, of irreproachable manner 
and address, be not a right pleasant individual to encounter, either 
you must be very unappreciative or there must be something in this 
particular specimen to account for your dissatisfaction. Now, what 
can it be? Let us take him in detail. 

He is very fair, and you tell me perhaps that you hate light-liaired 
2 


34 


SILYERMEAD. 


men, but I really cannot attend to your purely personal prejudices. 
You say you detect the coiffeur's tongs in the slight wave of those 
gold touched locks. It may be so. Proceed. The brow is ample, 
and the eyes are fairly large and decidedly intellectual. Bright and 
cold as steel are they? You are right. Restless too. No candor in 
tlieii glance, certainly. After all, they are but one feature; let us 
come to the nose -a study for a sculptor! A mustache, which is 
still but a sketch for the future article; and now for the mouth. 
Well, not ugly — a good deal of the classic bow about it; but I 
admit a deplorable thinness of lip; the corners, too, speak clearly of 
cynicism. The jaw and chin, which in another face might be only 
very firm, taken as they must be here in conjunction with the eyes 
and mouth, become stem and even cruel. 

Yes; I think I must admit you have made out your case, and 
shown that if your heart goes not out to this young patrician, his 
want of heart and, I fear, honesty, must bear the blame. 

“ It promises to be quite a full ball to-night, Miss Harding,” said 
Horace. “ 1 hope, if you have not already promised them all, that 
you will give me a dance soon.” 

“ 1 shall be very happy. 1 have declined to engage myself deep- 
ly. There are no programmes, and 1 am sure I should make a thou- 
sand mistakes, and be~ thought so rude. What dance will you have 
— the next?” 

“ What is it?” 

“ I have not an idea. Do you know, Mr. Acton?” said Camilla. 

“ A quadrille, 1 think.” 

“ Can you not find me a waltz — the next waltz?” 

” 1 am engaged for that to your friend Mr. Forbes.” 

“ The one after?” 

“ I had just promised that to Mr. Acton as you came up.” 

Horace bit his lip. It was nobody’s fault, but it was provoking. 

“ 1 would ask you for the third,” he said, “ but 1 am not fond of 
being disappointed, and you have just said you are sure to forget if 
you engage yourself deeply.” 

“ There are exceptions to every rule, Mr. Brudenell. I think, if 
1 try very hard,” she added, smiling rather roguishly, “ I shall not 
forget that waltz.” 

“ Shall 1 take you back to Lady Fouroaks?” asked Cyril Acton. 

“ Yes, 1 suppose L ought to go, ought 1 not?” said Miss Hard- 
ing, appealing to Acton in a way Brudenell did not quite like. But 
then lovers are so unreasonable. 

Just as the pair were moving off, the ,a;irl turned to Horace and 
said, with a simplicity which prevented its being anything but 
charming : 

“ As that waltz is so far off, I will give j t ou the lancers; that is 
the second square dance from now— I saw it written up. ” 

" What, instead of our waltz?” 

“ No, no, as well.” 

Horace felt invaded by a perfect flood of gratitude. “ Oh, thanks, 
so very much, ” he said. Language is such a poor thing on great 
occasions. 

Then suddenly Camilla said, ‘Is it not sad about poor Lady 
Susan; of course you have heard?” 


SILYERMEAD. 


o x 

o o 

Horace started guiltily. 1 his question of Camilla’s might mean 
anything, from a fatal fall from horseback to a sprained ankle. 
Camilla marked his concern, and perhaps ascribed it to a wrong 
cause. 

Horace only said : “ Is she not here?” 

“ Ho, you look so unhappy that 1 am quite sorry to be the one to 
tell you,” and the young lady showed a touch of pique. 

‘‘ You— you quite mistake me, indeed. But what has hap- 
pened?” 

“ Oh, nothing so very terrible; though, perhaps, we ought never 
to say that of death.” 

“ Death!” 

“ Only a cousin of Lady Caulfield, an old major they hardly 
knew, but still a first cousin. He was eighty-six, I believe.” 

“ But you said it was so sad/’ 

“I meant her not being able to come to-night; Lord Caulfield 
says they must not go out till after the funeral.” 

“Oh, exactly,” said Horace, half absently. “ The— the next 
dance then?” 

“The next lancers,” and as she moved off on Acton’s arm, she 
added, rather saucily, “ If you look so broken-hearted, I think all 
of us who have not lost aged cousins must conspire to console you. 
I’ve a great mind to give you the quadrille as well — oh, don’t be 
shocked, 1 don’t mean it,” and, laughing low, away she went. 


CHAPTER YI1 

TnE truth was that this unexpected absence of Lady Susan rather 
frightened Brudenell. Hedid not know he was frightened, but still 
he was so. He had unconsciously been relying upon the Marquis 
of Caulfield’s daughter as a sort of safe-guard to his conduct and 
protection against his own feelings, while mental^ calling her rather 
an incubus, if not, under present circumstances, even a bore. In 
the early stages of love a man’s passion increases in a way that quite 
staggers him at each new meeting with the girl who has bewitched 
him. Absence, of course, also adds to it greatly but gradually. 
Even Horace had no idea how beautiful, how perfectly lovely, he 
thought Miss Harding until to-niglit. The fact was her real beau- 
ties w^ere growing upon him, while to the faults of her face he was 
becoming used, najq he was getting to love them, and call them 
beauties too. Then there was "Acton. Miss Camilla had been very 
nice, as lovers call it, to Horace, but there was nothing in her con- 
duct incompatible with that odious Miss Laffinch’s tale of her caring 
for Mr. Acton. The heartache is, I believe, the jocular name for 
love. Well, young Brudenell had to-night not a merely figurative 
or moral pain in that region, but a real, positive, physical sensation 
very like aching on the left side of the chest. 

“ I wonder what they are about now,” he said, and he too sought 
the ball-room. 

There was Camilla, whirling away with his friend Forbes. Well, 
that w r as bearable; he didn’t mind Jack so much. Acton was, he 
thought, rather ostentatiously “sitting out,” as it is called, and 


SILVERMEAD. 


36 

seemed to be watching her, though not rudely, of course. But from 
the very first there was something — what shall I say? — galling, 
offensive to Horace, that seemed to him more than irreverent! al, in 
the way Acton allowed himself to look at Miss Harding. Toned 
down, as it, could not fail to be bj r the stringent laws of good man- 
ners, and the offender’s habits of refined society, yet there was a 
quality — a boldness — in the glance, which Horace would have de- 
tested even if he had not felt personally attracted by the lady in 
question; and the fact of its being but slightly indicated, instead of 
vulgarly expressed, only added to our hero's indignation, Deter- 
mined not to be like him in anything, and believing, rightly, 1 think* 
that few girls appreciate idle sighing, Brudenell sought a partner. 

“ I’ll have the ugliest girl in the room,” he said, grimly; “I’ll 
have the pleasure of pleasing somebody, if not myself, No one 
enjoys a dance like a plain, unnoticed girl who seldom gets asked, 
at least by such a fellow and such a dancer as 1 am. ” You see lie 
was talking in strict confidence to himself, and probably young men 
don’t mind a little conceit then. So he chose Miss Sarah, the 
gawky daughter of their vicar at Massing, who fully illustrated his 
meaning. She simply beamed with happiness, and remembered and 
talked of that dance for many a long day afterward. 

If it had been only a square dance, the compliment would have 
delighted her, but a waltz, Oh! and to be chosen before any one else 
in the room! Oh! oh! and by the nicest young man in the whole 
country. Oh! oh! oh! 

The dance over, Brudenell felt some of that soothing complacency 
which always follows a good action, and, alas! robs it of so much 
of its merit. He danced the quadrille with Lady Fouroaks and 
whiled away the time between that dance and the lancers by doing 
the agreeable to her ladyship’s large and slightly boisterous party. 

At length the moment came, as all moments have a way of doing. 
Nothing worth noting happened during the various figures of that 
unaccountably popular dance, A waltz or galop, even a polka you 
ma.y dance; you can talk out a quadrille with but few interruptions, 
but in the lancers, dancing and talking are alike delusions and 
snares. There is happily an ever-growing custom, now much in 
favor, which consists in the lady saying to her partner when he 
leads her out, supposing that is, that they are tolerably acquainted: 

“ If you don’t mind, I had so much rather sit and talk this dance 
— you are sure you don’t care? Thanks, Where shall we go? 
The staircase is coolest. Come along.” If the man is a bad per- 
former he may feel wounded, but generally speaking he is grateful. 
It is an excellent plan for the girl, such an economy in skirts! They 
do say, too, that many a hesitating wooer has been brought to the 
point by it. It may be so. I can only say “ Try it,” either to avoid 
revolving in a crush, or to escape a stupid square dance I Horace 
and his partner, however, had executed their lancer figures with 
exemplary precision, and were now too anxious to waltz with one 
another to dream of shirking the coming ecstasy; accordingly they 
only strolled round the set of smaller rooms during the few minutes’ 
interval they had to fill up. 

“ So you never met Mr. Acton before?” said Lilia. 

“ Never.” 


SILYERMEAD. 37 

** I am sure you tvill like him, he i3 so very nice,” pursued she, 
innocently, 

“ Well, 1 don’t know;” and Horace thought, “ Has she no better 
way of entertaining me than praising up that fellow Acton.” 

' You don’t think you shall?” said Camilla. 

“ Oh, 1 am sorry. But. how can you tell at first sight? I believe 
in love at first sight, but not in one man dispassionately reading an- 
other all in a moment.” 

“ One may dislike without reading.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ One may have heard things.” 

“lam sure,” put in Lilia, with some heat, “ if you have heard 
anything against Mr. Acton it was false.” 

“ She does care for him, confound him,” said Horace to himself. 
Then, aloud, ‘‘ 1 see you will listen to no word against him.” 

“ Why should 1? He is my friend, and — and — ” 

“ Pray do not trouble to explain,” said Horace, trying desperate- 
ly to appear cold, but fairly trembling all over. 

“ Do not mistake me, Mr. Brudenell. Believe me, it is my sense 
of justice alone that — ” 

“ But 1 have heard nothing against your friend.” 

“ But I thought you said — ” 

“ That what I had heard made me dislike him.” 

“Yet it was not to his disparagement?” 

“ On the contrary, to his glory, to his immense credit and glory.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Brudenell, 1 little thought } r ou were one — I cannot be- 
lieve it — one to give way to unworthy feelings, feelings of envy, of 
repining at another’s grand and noble qualities,” and a look of real 
pain came over the girl’s face. 

“And pray why not? Why have 1 not a right to be as bad as I 
please?” 

For the instant he was sure she did not love him, yet finding he 
could move her so, he sought consolation in exercising his power. 
It was better than nothing. 

“ Because,” replied Lilia, “ because you could be so good.” 

“Good! It is the last accusation that was ever brought against 
me.” 

“ Do not scorn the epilhet. Remember anybody — every convict 
— can be bad; but to be good is so difficult.” 

“ You do not mean to say you find it so?” 

She turned full upon him, her lips parted to speak. Then she 
checked herself, and said: “ If you only knew.” 

And unaccountably Horace’s thoughts went to her father. There 
was a pause, and they sat down. Presently Horace said : 

“ If I only thought you cared ever so little whether 1 was good.” 

In an almost inaudible tone, her eyes on her fan, she murmured, 
very seriously: 

“ 1 do care. ’ ’ 

“ Well,” he said, “ 1 do not think my feeling against Mr. Acton 
was unworthy, under the circumstances.” 

Again she said: 

“ I do not understand.” 


38 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ What I had heard, been assured of, made me furiously jealous 
of him.” 

“ Jealous! But for that you, you must care for some one,” and 
her young face betrayed the deepest concern; “ and you must think 
not only that he, but she, the girl or woman he— oh, won’t you tell 
me more? You would if you knew — ” 

There was no semblance of a blush, but still the same pale, rather 
scared look. It was indeed so pronounced that the young man asked 
himself if she were not acting. 

“ Perhaps,” she added, “ you do not mean jealous in love?” 

“ That is just what I do mean. ” 

“ Then you — ” 

“ Oh, Miss Harding, if I had any pride 1 could not, after what I 
have heard, 1 could not tell you that— and yet I thought 1 was so 
proud. Even as a child they said it would be my bane. 1 have seen 
you but three times, but have you not already discovered that — ” 

“ Hush!” said Lilia. But her lover could not tell whether she 
meant the exclamation to stop him in any case, or whether it was 
caused by the entrance of two individuals whom he had not seen. 
These were no other than the little doctor, McFinn, and his pro- 
tege, the boiled asparagus. With tipsy pertinacity, the Hibernian 
had been pursuing his intended introduction ever since Brudenell 
overheard his audacious design planned forth at the buffet, the mealy 
young man being a mere fly in the claws of a spider. Here, at length, . 
was the long-sought opportunity. 

“And how are ye, Miss Harding, anyway? It’s centuries I’ve 
been lucking for yer. And how is her dear ladyship this night?” 

He had taken lier hand, and stood pressing it like some forgotten 
object he might be unconsciously playing with. 

“ You know, Dr. McFinn, that I do not come from home. Lady 
Prendergast wrote this morning in her usual spirits, ’ ’ and now, by 
a well-timed jerk, Camilla extricated her hand. 

Here the little man, after bowing to Brudenell, whom he had met 
at Massing, stepped back, and seizing the poor young cad, his friend, 
who had hitherto been hiding behind him, a picture of awkward- 
ness — seizing him by the shoulder, he hauled him up, and said, “ Al- 
low me to introduce me very particklar friend Mr. Tacitus Webley, 
a splendid dancer, and a cousin of Lord Lochmahoney. Is it the 
next dance you’ll be givin’ him, miss?” Lilia had not yet acquired 
the art of snubbing, How a London belle of a few seasons pities 
the debutante for not knowing how not to dance with the wrong sort 
of men! Of course, until what are called the “ ropes ” are learnt, 
every one is victimized more or less; but, later on, there is nothing 
wherein a girl’s good or bad breeding becomes more apparent than 
in the way in which she succeeds in dancing only with such partners 
as she wishes to dance with. 

Your second-rate girl clumsily puts herself in the wrong. She has 
no real delicacy or self-respect, so thinks it very fine to imitate Lady 
Suprema Voltier in not dancing with little Sliuffleround. But note 
the different modus operandi, for her ladyship happens to be one of 
the right sort. 

Miss Cocktail — to borrow the nomenclature of the turf —begins by 
formally accepting Mr. Sliuffleround for waltz, say number five, and 


SILVERMEAD. 


39 


as she has not so many partners as she could desire, really means to 
stand up with him if she gets no more eligible offer. Mr. Shuffle- 
round, who has perhaps refrained from going on to another ball on 
account of this very waltz, for he has some sovoir vivre, though he 
cannot dance, comes up at the appointed time to claim it. Miss 
Cocktail says : 

“ Oh, I’m engaged for this.” 

“ I think,” says Mr. Sliuffleround, “ if you’ll kindly consult your 
card, you will find it is to me.” 

“ Oh, I have promised this to Lord Ritcli. 1 suppose 1 must have 
made a mistake.” 

“ Well, then,” falters Mr. Sliuffleround, meaning that now is the 
time to rectify it, for he saw his lordship make his entree not ten 
minutes ago. But even as he speaks, Miss Cocktail coolly glides her 
hand into the young earl’s proffered arm, and leaves the jilted one 
standing there without further ceremony. Probably several people 
have witnessed the little scene, which does not improve matters for 
Sliuffleround. Everybody knows that Lord Ritcli is one of the finest 
movers in London, and" a good deal else besides, which poor Mr. 
Shuffleround is not. 

Xow observe Sliuffleround had also tried to secure a dance from 
Lady Suprema ; but with infinite tact she had avoided giving either 
wliat he wanted or the slightest offense. There are various ways of 
doing this. To start with, if there be disinclination on the part of 
the young ladies generally to dance with a certain man, this is, of 
course, founded on certain reasons. Well, the man must be him- 
self aware of these, or else he is a fool, and being such he seeks suf- 
fering; knowing them, he should show a becoming diffidence. In a 
word, if Lady Suprema snubs either man or woman, you may safely 
say that they compel her to do it with their eyes wide open y and are 
entitled to no quarter. 

Society has made certain rules for itself, as long as people observe 
which, no individual can force another to choose between being rude 
and doing something they do not wish to do, although ill-bred people 
are for ever trying to force those above them into one of these two 
alternatives. Thus Lady Suprema tells little Sliuffleround — adher- 
ing as nearly to the truth as may be — either that she does not know 
liow long she will be able to stay, or being rather tired would rather 
not engage herself beforehand, or that she is already rather contused 
as to whom she is engaged to, or, remembering how Shuffleround 
waltzes, she accords him only a square dance, and so forth. 

But even if she for once took such a course as Miss Cocktail, how 
differently would she manage it! As soon as Lord Ritcli asked her, 
she would send for or find Mr. Shuffleround, apologize to him for 
her stupidity, say that he would do her a great favor, and get her 
out of a tiresome dilemma, if he would accept the dance before or 
the dance after; even that she had something particular to talk of 
with Lord Ritch, who could not stay, or fifty other things which the 
right sort of woman always has sufficient mother-wit to think of. 
If, however, little Shuffleround is bear enough to say, “ 1 value the 
privilege of dancing with you too much to give it up,” it is then he, 
and not Lady Suprema, who becomes responsible for his discomfit- 


40 


SILYER31EAD. 


ure, which naturally follows, as it is needless to add that Lord Ritch 
is to have the dance in any case. 

There was a strong instance of the Nemesis which follows fortui- 
tous rudeness only quite recently at a ball in Mayfair. 

A certain baronet, not very rich, but whom the Miss Cocktail in 
question would have given one of her eyes to secure, had really taken 
a strong fancy to her, and after due consideration, he fully made up 
his mind to propose. When, lo! Miss Cocktail, unaware alike of 
his intentions or his vicinity, enacted, almost at his elbow, just such 
a scene as the one described between her, Mr. Sliuffieround and 
Lord Ritch. How little did she dream that all in a moment, and 
for the sake of a waltz with a crack partner, she lost a husband— a 
chance of marrying such as she w 7 ill never find again. 

The baronet changed color, and merely saying to himself, ‘ ‘ No, 
1 will never wed a snob at heart,” dismissed Miss Cocktail from his 
thoughts from that moment. 

But to return to Miss Harding. She knew nothing, it is true, of 
all these little finesses~of how to have her own way, while wounding 
nobody; but she, at least, knew her ignorance. She knew that one 
of her race must not be underbred, and would rather have figured 
with every snob in the room, and there were plenty here to-night, 
than sin in the other direction by unduly wounding anyone. 

Notwithstanding the doctor’s flourish about the asparagus’ danc- 
ing powers, Camilla, all inexperienced as she was, intuitively felt 
misgivings there anent, and finally compromised matters for a qua- 
drille. The long-expected waltz for her and Horace now struck joy- 
fully upon their ears, and off they tripped once more to the ball-room. 

There is, 1 think, something very pathetic — all reservations made 
on the score of conventionality and the gas lit crowd in which it 
takes place — something really pathetic, 1 say, in a young man’s arm 
first encircling for a waltz the waist of the girl he loves, and hopes, 
however vaguety, to make his wife. He feels a mingled apprecia- 
tion and reverence, as he entwines her, which he will never forget, 
even if he lives to be ninety. 

What though a hundred thoughtless and irreverent arms, kept in 
order by worldly fear, have clasped that waist before ! It is none 
the less sacred to him. And she, the girl? If she has already be- 
gun lo care for him, or even to know that she is above other women 
in his eyes, does she not divine very nearly what is passing in his 
mind? A slight and involuntary thrill runs through her as they 
move off, but almost imperceptible as it is, yet he feels it and thrills 
back: 

“ O joj 7 s of youth ! O joys of youth !” 

But little was said and much felt during that waltz; and Bru- 
denell told himself as it ended that Camilla was sweet to that degree 
that moss roses, violets and sweet-brier were nowhere in the race 
with her. He had even visions of a cabin by some distant sea, and 
what more impossible chimeras 1 know not; but he ended with this 
rather odd self-communing: 

‘ No, 1 shall never— mind, never, 1 am quite sure of that— care to 
take any other woman to my heart. But is such ecstatic love after 
all the end and aim of life? Is any such rapture worth the forfeit- 


SILYERMEAD. 41 

ing of position, the peace of one’s relations, the wealth of one’s chil- 
dren? No. They may possibly be combined; if so, 1 will marry 
Miss Harding; but, if 1 must choose between these things and her, 
1 will not marry her. Only adieu, then, to love— or anything like 
it — for Horace Brudenell in this world! He must become the man 
of sterner ambitions, of more generally useful, if less gentle, pur- 
suits. ” 

And when he had told himself thus much, he morally patted him- 
self on the back for having his warmest feelings so well in hand. 
He thought it highly wise and creditable in so young a man to-be so 
clear-sighted, so unbiased, so well able to weigh the pros and cons 
of his position, and steer his course with a firm hand, even amid 
the distracting billows of admiration, jealousy and passion: “Let 
him who thinks himself secure, tremble lest he fall.” 

So that was all this clever young man knew about himself or the 
matter in hand. Well, a man who is incapable of being turned 
into a perfectly helpless simpleton by beauty — at least once in his 
life — is no man, because he does not to the full appreciate beauty, 
grace, charm, helplessness, esprit, in fine, all that goes to make up it 
really irresistible woman. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Horace was now ordered to take a sister of Lady Fouroaks — a 
young widow — down to supper; I mean up, for the exigences of the 
Town hall required an ascent. This Mrs. Preakness deserved her 
reputation of being very good fun, rather too much of the rattle- 
trap order, perhaps, but still very pleasant, and just the woman to 
sweep the cobwebs out of your brain with a coupe of sentences and 
a peal of laughter. The two would doubtless have greatly enjoyed 
their repast, for the supper had been going on nearly an hour, and 
there was no longer any crowd — every body, some forty in number, 
being, at this moment, able to sit down — but for the fact that Miss 
Harding and her cavalier were at the other end of the table, quite in 
sight, but out of earshot, that they seemed far more engrossed in 
conversing than in eating, and that the gentleman’s name was 
Acton. Horace wished Mrs. Preakness anywhere but by his side; 
yet even had a fairy whisked her away, how would that have bene- 
fited him, since he could not go and disturb the couple whose per- 
fectly correct proceeding so acutely annoyed him? But there was 
something more. He had obtained Lilia’s willing consent to give him 
the first waltz after supper. Now, she seemed to him to have for- 
gotten everything in the world except the individual she was con- 
versing with, and had not once cast a glance toward the other end 
of the table. Therefore, Horace told himself that if Mrs. Preakness, 
who appeared both hungry and thirsty, should dawdle unduly over 
the little banquet, and, naturally, he could not hurry her, a ready 
excuse would be furnished to Miss Harding, in his unavoidable ab- 
sence, for transferring that waltz — and it is proverbially the dance 
of the evening — to his rival; even, that is, if Miss Camilla should 
condescend to remember the existence of poor Horace at all. Unable 
to swallow solid food under this trial, the young man, who, for all 
his boasted philosophy, was fairly love-sick, kept tossing off bumper 


SILTERMEAD. 


42 

'after bumper of champagne in the endeavor to assuage his devouring 
thirst. He had one excuse, he knew it would not make him tipsy. 
His brain, if not his heart, was constitutionally difficult to upset. 
No amount of that honest but not powerful Sillery could have un- 
steadied his gait, however it might unloosen his tongue. His voluble 
companion kept up an unceasing flow of light nothings, which en- 
tailed the very meagerest response from him. Your inveterate talker 
is quite above being checked by such trifles as meat and drink, and 
so Horace was enabled, without seeming rude, to concentrate almost 
his entire attention upon the pair whose proceedings cost him such 
profoundly interesting pain. 

As ill luck would have it, the topic, whatever it may have been, 
which Lilia and Acton had hitherto been so eagerly discussing, now 
came abruptly to an end, and Acton forthwith directed all his ener- 
gies to criticising and ridiculing the decorations and arrangements of 
the supper table — things whicli, truth to tell, amply lent themselves 
to such a pursuit. He was a young man of quiet, undemonstrative 
ways, and, therefore, although you could see he was sneering and 
quizzing at something, it was exceedingly difficult to know what 
that something might be. 

“ Trifles light as air, 

Are to the jealous confirmations strong 
As proofs of Holy Writ.” 

Horace Brudenell, who saw those eyes he already hated directed 
boldly straight down the table in a line with him, who likewise saw 
his lips curl, and his whole face assume a look of amused contempt, 
who watched him slightly bend and carelessly drop some remarks 
to Miss Harding, which evidently amused both speaker and listener, 
Horace, I say, suddenly jumped to the rash and rather stupid con- 
clusion that he— he, Horace Brudenell, "was the object of this satire, 
the butt of young Acton’s remarks. He was seized with sudden 
fury, and never so much as asked himself whether he might not be 
mistaken. W e have seen that he plumed himself upon his coolness, 
his self-control, but such as remained to him under this supposed in- 
sult was all concentrated upon retaining his outward composure. 
However he may have deceived himself as to the power he exercised 
oyer his feelings — and are we not all dupes in this? — he could boast 
with truth that no outward act of his short life had been very rash. 
He was, besides, de trop bonne vie to do anything which might cause 
a row, at all events before ladies. Yet his anger burnt only the 
more fiercely for being smothered in decorum. As he anticipated, 
the pair he was watching presently rose, as with one accord and a 
light, joyous step, and sped from the room. He thought, too, that 
the lady took the proffered arm with a shade too much confidence 
and abandon. A moment later, an exceptionally intoxicating waltz 
struck clearly upon his ear. After that, even the gushing Mrs. 
Preakness, engrossed as she still was in her talk, herself, and her 
supper, could not but notice the change which had come over her 
companion. 

“ Good gracious!” she cried, “ are you ill?” 

111! Oh, dear no; what makes you ask?” 

“You look suddenly— I don’t know what. And 1 declare you 
have had no supper!” 


SILVEItMEAD. 


43 


“ I — I am not hungry. Pray do not mind me.” 

“ But I do mind you, very much. It is the heat of the room? 
You are dead tired? No? Then what?” 

“ No, no, 1 am often pale and, and — absent in manner. Allow me 
to fill your glass?” 

“ But tell me— 1 quite forgot, you are no doubt engaged for this 
dance, and here am I, who don’t dance, keeping you from your 
partner.” 

“ Oh, never mind, no doubt she will console herself with some one 
else. ’ ’ 

And as he said this there was a look— a bitterness that revealed to 
good-natured Mrs. Preakness, at least, part of the truth. She rose 
at once, and hurried Horace down-stairs. As they reached the ball- 
room, who should be standing just inside, with their backs to the 
doorway, but Acton and Miss Harding. 

‘‘Now, don’t mind me,” said Mrs. Preakness, disengaging her- 
self; “ you know 1 want no cavalier,” and she disappeared in the 
throng. 

“No, no,” Lilia was saying, with much emphasis; “ 1 tell j-ou 1 
promised. 1 cannot, indeed, 1 cannot.” 

“ But why?” urged Acton. “ Why in the name of goodness, 
since he’s not here?” 

‘ ‘ But he may come. ' 

“ 1 declare to you, the widow will chain him this half hour. She 
is beginning all over again. As we got up from table she went back 
to the soup. Ha, ha, ha!” 

Every word of this little dialogue Brudenell. of course, heard. 

“ 1 beg your pardon,” he said, addressing the young man, his 
voice trembling in spite of him as he did so. Then, turning to Lilia: 
“ I have the pleasure of being engaged to you for this dance.” 

“Yes,” she said, quite simply, and with a friendly inclination of 
the head to Acton, who looked unmistakably disappointed, she took 
Horace’s arm with a serenity which made it impossible to divine 
whether she rejoiced in or regretted the exchange. 

Well, he had got her. that much he had at least accomplished. 
She did not seem in the least tired, and danced as perfectly as ever, 
with that springy suppleness which, alas! endures but two or three 
years, sometimes only during a girl’s first season. 

But her partner Was too perturbed, too miserable, to derive any 
pleasure even from dancing with his soul’s ideal. You cannot enjoy 
a lovely view, or the beautiful in any shape unless the spirit is fairly 
at peace. A man may passionately enjoy pouring brandy down his 
throat, or pushing about golden piles upon the gambler’s green cloth, 
but the things that are good and pure shall not delight him until, at 
least, some degree of calmness has been restored. Horace made but 
few pauses during this dance, because he hardly trusted himself to 
speak until he should have made up his mind what to say. Tell 
her much, that very night, he must and would ; but the electricity 
was yet only accumulating throughout the cloud, it had still to find 
concentration and expression in the thunderbolt. 

Camilla saw that he was strangely altered, and vainly sought the 
cause. She guessed him somewhat jealous of Acton, to be sure, but, 
considering that Ihe latter had given him no possible cause of 


44 


SILYERMEAD. 


offense — that it was nothing more, in fact, than that ordinary feeling 
which one good-looking young man, when they both admire the 
same woman, has for another good-looking young man — she could 
not at all solve the mystery. Not liking to ask questions, she talked 
about the people aiound them; but Horace’s answers were deplora- 
ble. She was beginning to wonder whether this puzzle would keep 
her awake long after she sought her pillow, when the dance came to 
an end. They took one turn round the room, arm in arm, and then, 
suddenly, the young man said, rather as if awakening from a dream: 

“ Would you mind coming and sitting with me in one of those 
rooms over there for a few minutes? I — 1 want to ask you about 
something.” 

“Mind? Not the least. It is much cooler and pleasanter. ” 

So he led her in silence, and they picked out a retired nook for a 
chat. After they were seated, Horace cleared his throat, and said: 

“ Do not be offended with me,” and then he paused. 

“lam sure 1 shall not. Trust me.” 

“ 1 must tell you, then, I had formed the — the very highest opin- 
ion of 3 r ou.” 

He paused again, but this time she made no sign. 

“1 fancied,” he pursued, “ that you liked me — not much — but 
well enough, upon our short acquaintance, to hope that we might 
soon become friends.” 

“ I like you very much, indeed,” she said, low. 

“ And yet,” he said, “ when to-night a friend of yours behaved 
to me disgracefully — ” 

“ A friend of mine?” 

“ Yes. Mr. Acton.” 

“How? What has he done?” 

The candid surprise of this exclamation fairly staggered Brude- 
nell ; yet he went on to say : 

“ When he ventured to do so, you joined in the laugh.” 

“You must be strangely mistaken. 1 am sure j r ou are.” 

“1 think not.” 

“Tell me more. When was this?” 


“ Do you mean to say, on 3 r our honor, that upstairs, just now, he 
was not turning me into ridicule?” 

“Igive you m3” word that your name was not even mentioned. 
No reference of any kind was ever made to you. I saw you come 
m with Mrs. Preakness and sit down, but you were so far off I 
never thought of making any sign. Oh! you do believe me?” 

1 must, since you give your word. But what, then, was the 
object of your sarcasm? It was evident you were both sneerimr at 
something.” & 

“Of our— Oh, I remember now— ha, ha, ha! It shows how caie- 
tul one should be! We were laughing over the highly provincial 
decorations of the table. That center piece!” 

Horace felt small. Had he then been furious with a scarecrow a 
creature of his fevered brain? No matter, he hated Acton, and 
" cn t on , 


liPlnhltr.™ 1 . Mr - Acton had no right to urge you, as I could not 

told l m ln l i lm d °’ t0 g !7* him H 10 last waltz > after you expressly 
told mm j ou were engaged to me. * J 


SILVERMEAD. 


45 


Listen to these two talking! Can anything be more flat than their 
language, more petty and commonplace than their subject? Yet; 
thus it is ever with lovers. Their converse is all looks, tones, and 
mesmerism, and the poor words get the worst of it. So whenever 
an author or dramatist puts fine things into the mouths of his love- 
makers we instinctively feel that it is not real! 

“ But,” answered Camilla, “ we had that moment left you in at- 
tendance on the lady you had taken to supper, and—” 

‘‘Oh, of course you defend him,” broke out Horace, for once 
quite forgetting his manners. 

“ I defend all my friends when they are unjustly attacked,” said 
Camilla, flushing up, for it pained her to see him rude. 

Then he said, recklessly: 

‘‘Oh, of course, I am wrong throughout. 'Wrong upstairs, 
wrong about the waltz. Mr. Acton is a piece ol perfection, and I’m 
a fool not to see it.” 

“ But, you see, I would not give him the dance.” 

The tone in which she said this is indescribable. He shot a quick 
glance at her; he had been looking down, his elbows on his knees, 
to see if her face confirmed her tone, and said, quite gently, 

“ No, you didn’t,” and his look added, “ bless you.” 

Now, whether Miss Harding was more of a woman already than 
anyone gave her credit for, and wanted Horace to propose to her that 
night, or whether she was still so much of a child as to give way to 
a childish impulse to bceak through conventionality, is a point which 
each one had better decide for himself; but, no sooner did their eyes 
meet, than she laid her little hand down on the back of her lover’s, 
and said, with a whole world of tenderness: 

‘ ‘ What is the matter ? ’’ 

To Horace it was an electric shock. 

“ The matter?” he echoed, his whole face aflame; “ do you not 
know that I love you — have loved you, adored you, from the first 
night we met?” 

This was hardly true, but he believed it at the time. 

So the fatal word was spoken— spoken without premeditation, 
spite of all his boasted prudence; wrung out of him literally by a 
coup de main . 

She threw herself back with her head against the wall — they sat 
upon a very narrow uncomfortable rout seat — closed her eyes, and 
murmured, 

“ 1 am so glad.” 

Then, looking to see that they were quite alone, he bent and 
kissed her cheek. The cheek blushed but she did not move, so he 
kissed the blush. It was done! When a man of the slightest honor 
tells a woman — at any rate a lady — that he loves her, he is as good 
or as bad as married to her if she wishes it. 

Will it be believed that no idea that he had been caught ever en- 
tered Horace’s head? His uncle, Lady Susan, his prospects, all, it 
is true, flashed before his mind’s eye at this juncture, but all he felt; 
was delight. He loved Camilla ten thousand times more ardently 
than two minutes before, and he reveled wildly in the double 
thought that she did love him, and therefore could not love his sup- 
posed rival Acton. Why, how ridiculous his fears had been. He 


SlLVEEMEAD. 


46 

felt at this moment that lie could absolutely hug that misguided 
young man for his groundless and most harsh suspicions of him. He 
said: 

“ 1 feel we have now so many things to say, one hardly knows 
where to begin. ’ ’ 

Miss Harding was bending forward now, with her eyes down; she 
said: 

“ Do you believe in presentiments?” 

“ In yours I do. ” 

“ Then I hope you are wrong, for I have a fear — a fear that there 
are all kinds of obstacles in our way.” 

“We will overcome them; but of what kind are they?” 

“ Some 1 can imagine, but there may come others of which neither 
of us dream, and they frighten me.” 

He pressed her hand. 

“ Great happiness,” she said, with charming shyness, “ is, they 
declare, always hard to believe in.” 

“ But,” he interrupted, “ yours, if you are good enough to call it 
so, is nothing to compare with mine, and I have no fears.” 

“ Men are so brave!” 

Here one of those busybodies who are always being sent to see 
after people — or else pretending that they are so— appeared upon the 
scene, to say Lady Fouroaks was assembling her forces previous to 
departure, that the omnibus was to start first, then the brougham, 
and last the landau. 

“Thanks,” said Miss Harding; “1 am *in the landau. Lady 
Fouroaks said we were all to go back as we came. I will come in a 
few minutes.” 

The embassador slunk away. He felt snubbed, he (lid not know 
why 

“ And when shall 1 see you again?” asked Brudenell, anxiously; 
“ may I ride over to-morrow?” 

“N — no,” Camilla replied,- with a little frightened look which 
puzzled him. 

“ Then when? But make it soon. ” 

“ I — I will write,” she said; “ 1 am almost afraid. Oh, it is not 
my fault,” and she heaved a deep sigh, and an anxious look stole 
over her young face. ‘ ‘ I shall be dying to see you again, you know 
it, do yon not?” 

“ I hope it.” 

“You will have to believe everything 1 say in future;” this with 
a touch of playfulness. “ But,” and now she was grave again, “ it 
is about gran’ma. She would see at once that we were not as we 
were. I— I— had better tell her.” 

“ But, of course. 1 thought you would tell her to-morrow first 
thing.” 

She turned to him as though to disclaim such an intention. Then 
said, very quietly: 

“ You don’t know Lady Prendergast; oh, how much I have to 
explain to you. 1 will write it.” 

Here the busybody returned to say that the omnibus had started. 

The two lovers jumped up. They had forgotten him and his 
errand. 


SILYERMEAD. 


47 

As Horace .brought her down, he asked his new fiancee : “ And 
when— when may I expect a letter? How 1 shall count the minutes 
till it conjes!” 

She pressed the arm she was taking. 

“You shall hear the day after to-morrow — no, 1 forgot, I shall not 
get home to Silvermead in time. But, stay, it is now morning, so it 
is to day 1 return. To-morrow will be Friday — Saturday morning 
you shall hear.” 

They had reached the crowd of departing guests. All was hurry 
and confusion. Acton had got Miss Harding’s things, and now 
proceeded to put them on. It did not matter. Horace had ceased 
being jealous, for the time being at least. He stood by, and gave 
her his arm again to take her to the carriage. 

“ Good- night,” she whispered; “ God bless you,” oh, so tender- 
ly- 

And, watching his opportunity, he managed to whisper back: 

“ Good-night, my love.” 

And she was gone. ' 

True, the day had almost come. 

The April morn ; but lovers have no sympathy with sunlight, and 
these two preferred to keep up the fiction that it was yet night. 
How could they have said “ Good-morning,” with any satisfaction 
or poetry? „ 

Needless to tell that Brudenell danced no more. Not although 
Miss Larch cast a piteous glance at him as he passed. Why he re- 
turned to the ball-room at all he hardly knew. Perhaps to see how 
hideous it looked without liis lady; though this was such a foregone 
conclusion as to be hardly worth the testing. But those who care to 
follow the ways and thoughts of lovers must be content to find them 
supremely strange, inconsistent and unaccountable. 

In the delirium of fever one does not expect people to be rational. 
Another quarter of an hour saw Horace driving back to Massing 
through the gray dawn. He now set himself once more to analyze 
his feelings, even as he had done during his former drive. Horace, 
as we have seen, was much given to this practice; one which is oc- 
casionally, if not often, compatible with the strongest passions, the 
warmest natures, and is indeed a sort of counterpoise which Nature 
supplies to keep some few, at least, of her most ardent children 
within bounds. So that if our hero was not at this period of his 
career more sane than other lovers, he had, at all events, much 
method in his madness. 

We will not, however, pry into his thoughts again on this occa- 
sion. Suffice it to say that while his heart prevented his regretting 
in any degree what he had done, his keen self-scrutiny yet made 
him arrive clearly enough at the conclusion, just as he drove in at 
his uncle’s gates, that although, as has been emphatically said be- 
fore, he had never, during the night, been noticeably under the in- 
fluence of wine, yet had he happened to have drunk nothing but 
water, he would probably not have made his rather premature dec- 
laration to Miss Harding. 


'48 


SILTERMEAD. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Sir Howard Brudenell was the last man you would care to 
keep waiting; if, that is, you had any wish to remain on his good 
books. 

Young heads are heavy sleepers, and, as a rule, Horace loved his 
eight hours of bed when he had them to spare as well as most people 
of his age. But when love first invades the youthful breast food 
and sleep are the principal things that it discounts. 1 say first in- 
vades, but in many natures the phenomena are repeated as often as 
the malady returns. That old-fashioned idea, by-the-bye, that if you 
can love more than once you never really love at all, is now, 1 be- 
lieve, quite exploded. No, love is not any longer ranked among the 
diseases you can only have once, and therefore inoculation no more 
avails in its regard. 

Horace slept little and feverishly after the ball, and, when called 
at eighl o’clock, to jump up immediately was rather a relief than 
otherwise. Accordingly at nine he found himself seated as usual 
opposite his prim and stately uncle at breakfast. Sir Howard de- 
spised curiosity as undignified, but for all that he felt a considerable 
degree of it exciting him this morning, only he strove to elevate the 
sensation by changing its name into legitimate interest; and even 
this he would not manifest by asking questions if he could make his 
nephew talk, and supply the information he desired without that 
process. But the latter was by no means in a humor to discourse of 
the events of the night; so after Sir Howard had abused the weather, 
which had turned rainy, and talked for some time about Mr. Brand- 
ing, the agent, and various matters relating to the estate— things in 
which Horace exhibited to-day a strong but fictitious interest, in the 
hope of reducing discussion upon the ball at Iiasham to the narrow- 
est possible dimensions, Sir Howard said, looking considerately out 
of the window, 

“Well, and you have told me nothing about the ball. How — 
how did you get on with Lady Susan?” 

“ Oh, none of the Caulfield party were there.” 

“ Not there! AVliy Lady Caulfield told me herself — ,v 

“ 1 know, uncle, but news came of the death of some relation — 
only an old cousin of eighty, or somebody of that sort— any how 
they were not there. ’ ’ 

“ How very provoking!” said the uncle, with feeling. 

“Well, it can’t be helped,” replied the nephew, with beautiful 
resignation. 

“ Why, 1 declare, Horace, you seem quite pleased!” 

“Eh!— I?” 

“ Yes. I believe you boys hate anything that prevents your flirt- 
ing round with every pretty girl in the room, making as much love 
as you please to them all. ’ ’ 

Sir Howard was really annoyed and irritated. He thought if Lady 
Susan was not there that Horace ought to deplore her absence, 
whether he cared personally for her or not. 

“ Oh, uncle!” said the latter, just to say something. 


SILYERMEAD. 


40 

An event of the night before now recurred to Sir Howard’s mind 
which he had made very light of at the time; first because it came 
from the unreliable Miss Latfinch, and then because he thought he 
had so tickled Horace’s ambition on the score of the marquis’s rich 
daughter as to render him impervious to the charms of what he 
called an insignificant little chit like Miss Harding. 

When the rubber had broken up, and while the whisty old colonel 
■was helping himself to a final brandy-and-soda, Lafiinch had whis- 
pered to Sir Howard — 

“ 1 know something.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ I’ve found something out, and thought I’d give you the hint.” 

“ You are very kind.” 

“ Couldn’t tell you the other night, because he was here.” 

“ He — who?” 

“ Why, Master Horace, to be sure.” 

“ What of him?” said the baronet, coldly. Had this horrid old 
cat’s omniscience already penetrated the Lady Susan design, or 
what other plans had the old woman invented for interfering in his 
private affairs? She was all very well as a fourth at whist, when it 
was a question of having her or dummy; but in every other relation 
of life the Lafiinch was to be kept at once at arm’s length and in 
good humor. 

“ He’s in love.” 

“ 1 dare say,” said Sir Howard, indifferently, to disappoint her. 

“ Shall I tell you whom with?” 

“ I really don’t care.” 

“ Then 1 do,” retorted the spinster, savagely, ‘‘for 1 think it’s a 
trap.” 

“ A trap! what do you mean?” 

“Aha! what I say. A trap, a trap, a trap,” she snapped out, 
hammering on the successful word which had extorted a question 
from Sir Howard. Still he knew his interlocutor too well to “ rise” 
much. 

“ Believe me you are mistaken,” he said with all his wonted 
hauteur. 

“ Not I. 1 never am.” 

The colonel had gone to bed, so now she spoke out. 

“ That Harding girl, you know, the daughter of that disreputable 
adventurer. That horrid, scheming old Lady Prendergast loves her 
grandchild wildly and would stick at nothing to get her married re- 
spectably. The little minx — obeying orders, no doubt— made a dead 
set at him the moment they met, so I am told.” 

“ Iudeed!” 

“ And you should have only seen the indecent way she marched 
him off to the conservatory the day 1 dined there. ’ ’ 

“ But you told me the other evening that she cared for some one 
else. ’ ’ 

“ For Acton, yes; he’s the amant de cceur, but she knows Lord 
Hammersley will never consent. If she catches poor Horace, 
though, you will see nice doings when she has become Mrs. Brude- 
nell. She takes after her father. Que voulez vous! It’s in the 
blood!” 


50 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ But— but — ” said the now anxious uncle, moved in spite of 
himself, “ what leads you to suppose that m^ nephew cares—" 

“ What leads me?" she asked, mocking his tone impudently, for 
she saw now that she held him, and it was her nature always to be- 
come insupportable when she could afford it, as it was also a part of 
her system. 

“ What leads me? My good Sir Howard, a few nights ago I sat 
alone with your nephew on this very sofa. 1 thought — for I have 
always taken a deep interest in your family— that 1 would just as- 
certain which way the wind blew. Accordingly 1 told him some- 
thing of little Harding’s manage with young Acton, of their more 
than compromising goings-on ; in fact — well, you should have only 
seen him! The poor boy turned all colors, and positively went all 
ot a shake." 

“ My dear lady. 1 really think you exaggerate — unintentionally 
of course, but — " 

‘ ‘ Exaggerate ! I? My dear Sir Howard, ask anybody. lam 
well known to be always under the mark." 

This in a shrill tone of indignation. 

“ Are you?" scoffed her listener to himself. “ It’s probably only 
a trick of hers just to give hersell importance." Then aloud: 

“ Well, well, my good friend, I am grateful for your kindly in- 
terest. 1 have reason to know, however, that if my nephew has, as 
you suppose, any fancy for Miss Harding, it is of the most transient 
nature." 

“ You would hardly say so if you had witnessed our very brief 
interview," persisted the lady unflinchingly. “ His idea could be 
nothing less than marriage, for he wa3 beginning to question me 
about that gambling father of the girl’s when you and the colonel 
came in from your wine." 

“ Well, well, 1 must see to it. 1 repeat, dear Miss Lafflnch, that 
I thank you. Good-night — good-night." 

And thus he had dismissed both his guest and the subject, but 
now that chance had prevented what Sir Howard not unreasonably 
considered a promising first move in his game; now, too, that Hor- 
ace seemed so unnaturally serene under the disappointment of the 
Caulfield party’s absence from the ball, the conversation of the 
night before assumed an importance he had not accorded to it 
before, and he told himself that Miss Lafflnch’s warning might 
really be worth consideration after all. At the same moment Hor- 
ace’s question to himself, Sir Howard — as to whether Miss Harding 
was not a considerable heiress — came back to him full of signifi- 
cance. If nothing direct could now be done with Lady Susan for 
some days to come, Sir Howard told himself that he would at any 
rate indirectly further his scheme by clearing the road of all obsta- 
cles. While still hardly believing that such a little chit as that Hard- 
ing girl could presume to stand in his august way, he would first of 
all find out the full truth about it, and should it turn out that she 
did so presume, he would ruthlessly and summarily sweep her out of 
it. All this passed through the baronet’s mind 'in a very few sec- 
onds, and then he said — rather carelessly, 

“ And who were your partners last night?" 


SILYERMEAD. 51 

Horace was expecting a certain amount of catechizing, so he didn’t 
blush, but replied with a very good grace, 

“ O well, 1 danced aw T ay. Let me see — there was Miss Larch — ” 

“ Miss Larch!” echoed his uncle with a mixture of slight surprise 
and contempt. 

‘‘Then you know one always has a lot of duty dances to get 
through. There were several of the Fouroaks party.” 

‘‘ Ah!” put in Sir How r ard, approvingly. 

“ And then— let me see — you lold me to mind and ask Miss Hard- 
ing — you said 1 dinecl there the other day.” 

“ Ah, so 1 did — I remember; so you danced with her?” 

44 Yes, uncle.” 

“ How often?” and, as he fired this shot, he happened to look up 
from his egg, straight into poor Horace’s eyes. 

The question was utterly unexpected, for Horace had no reason to 
suppose his uncle knew aught of the state of his feelings with re- 
gard to this young lady. He felt himself blush and saw that his 
uncle noted it. He could not help looking down. He knew it was 
a mistake, but he did it. 

4 ‘ Let me see,” he said, as if reflecting. 44 Oh to be sure!” and 
now he looked up again, “I danced with her twice.” He really 
forgot the Lancers at the moment. 44 She is a pretty little girl, don’t 
you think so?” 

44 Yes, 1 do; a very pretty little girl and really very pleasant.” 

44 Now tell me, nephew,” pursued Sir Howard~(almost laughing) 
and so genially that he would have thrown a Talleyrand oft his 
guard, “tell me — as a matter of taste — which do you personally 
most admire, the mignon charms of such a little girl as that, or the 
more imposing and Juno-like attraction of your Lad} r Susan?” 

Horace fell into the trap at once. He thought it not impossible 
that his uncle was about to tell him that she whom he loved was 
also a great heiress, and that although no marquis’s daughter her fam- 
ily was old, and that if his heart led him toward the less brilliant 
match, Sir Howard’s ambition should not say him nay. Still, high 
as his heart beat at the thought, he knew his relative too well not to 
answer with some little caution. 

44 l will not deny,” he said, 44 that 1 think there would, of the two, 
be more chance of my falling in love with Miss Harding.” 

44 1 thought so,” put in the uncle. 

44 But tell me first, are you giving me my choice? Is Miss Hard- 
ing also a match you would approve — is she, too, an heiress?” 

“ She is out of the question.” 

44 Then why did you ask me?” and Horace’s face fell wofully as 
the other well observed, and there was something like impatience in 
the young man’s tone as he put the question. 

4 4 My dear boy ’ ’ (this propitiatingly), 4 4 merely as a matter of taste — 
as if there were a question ot two pictures. Of course you have seen 
too little of either of the ladies for your heart to be touched b} r one 
or other of them. However, as we are on the subject, 1 may as well 
tell you that Miss Harding, as a match for any man, would be most 
objectionable.” 

44 May 1 inquire why?” 

44 By all means, there is no secret in the matter. First then, her 


52 


SILYEH3IEAD. 


father (one Harding, whom 1 used to know in former days) is not 
only a spendthrift, a ruined gambler, but he is positively a defaulter. 
The fellow has been warned off Newmarket heath for not paying the 
heavy bets which he lost there and on other race courses. ’ ’ 

“ Very, very bad,” said Horace, “ no doubt; still it is hard that 
his daughter should be punished.” 

“ Hard, nonsense. Does not the glory of a great general or states- 
man descend to his posterity? Why, then, in common fairness, 
should not a man’s bad actions bring discredit to his offspring?” 

“ Pardon me, uncle, you do not understand me. I admit that 
Miss Harding should suffer, but not to the extent of being doomed 
to single-blessedness. She will, I suppose, be some day very rich, 
and you will then see how many a man of good position will step 
forward to woo her.” 

“ She rich?” cried Sir Howard in derision. “ Who told you that 
tale?” 

“ I naturally imagined that at Lady Prendergast’s death — ” 

“ She will be lucky if she gets two hundred a year.” 

Horace was so deeply interested at this point of the conversation 
that he forgot to act any longer, and the bitter disappointment he 
felt was clearly legible upon his anxious countenance. 

The sharp Sir Howard’s worst fears were thereby confirmed, and 
he determined more than ever to nip this romantic nonsense in the 
bud. 

“ As 1. have told you, Horace, you must marry money, if you 
marry at all; unless,” he added, with a grim smile, “ you and your 
wife are willing to live in a hut, and earn your wages as farm serv- 
ants.” 

Here Horace, who inherited all the family pride, colored up in 
anger, but he said nothing. 

Sir Howard went on: 

‘ ‘ The Silvermead estates are very large, but they are strictly en- 
tailed, and pass to a distant cousin— Lord Howden, a Scotchman — at 
Lady Prendergast’s death. During her life she has so much of the 
income as remains, after paying some eight thousand a year as in- 
terest on the heavy mortgages with which" the estates are encumbered, 
owing to debts contracted by the first baronet over a hundred years 
ago, and which none of his descendants have chosen, if they have 
been able, to pay off.” 

Horace’s wrath, for want of a worthier object, here turned against 
the tipsy little doctor, McFiun, whose loose tongue had perhaps been 
responsible in some degree for what the young fellow could now 
but call his extreme rashness at the ball. 

“ As Lady Prendergast had little fortune of her own,” Sir Howard 
went on to explain, “ and as Cave Harding soon managed to get hold 
of and squander the £15,000 which Miss Prendergast, Miss Haiding’s 
mother, brought him in marriage— for it was most imprudently not 
tied up as it ought to have been— it follows that all this poor girl can 
have in the way of money to counteract the lamentable disgrace of 
such a father, will be any meager scrapings which her grandmother 
may be able to leave her. 1 should tell 3 r ou by the late Sir Lionel’s 
will he made his wife’s enjoyment of the revenues conditional upon 
her keeping up the place, including, the gardens, et cetera, just as he 


SILVERMEAD. 


53 


left it; and so the wonder is how the old lady can manage to make 
ends meet, let alone any question of saving.” 

What was Horace to say or to do? Here was a blow indeed! He 
felt a great longing to be alone, and endeavor, if possible, to think 
out the situation. Above all, lie longed to be out of his uncle’s 
presence. How, no detestable thing seemed to him even at all un 
likely; and he almost expected Sir Howard to ask him, prompted by 
' something he might read in his disconcerted face, whether he had 
already proposed to this penniless girl or not. 

He turned yet a shade paler at tiie thought. Ho idea of the kind, 
however, was in Sir Howard’s mind. It needed little penetration, of 
course, to see that his nephew was deeply interested in this extremely 
young lady. Besides, had not Miss Laffinch carefully acquainted 
him with the fact? But he never so much as dreamt that in the 
three meetings they had had, this boy and girl had been carried so 
swiftly along by passion’s waves as to have already breathed of love 
and marriage. 

Ho, even" now to Sir Howard’s mind it merely appeared that an 
ardent 3 7 oung fellow had got “ spoony ” on a rather nice little girl, 
that they were having a silly flirtation, and that, even taking the 
most alarming and serious view of matters, it came to no more than 
this— that Horace might want watching. Much to the latter’s relief, 
then, a very few seconds after the statement the baronet had given 
of Camilla’s impecuniosity, he rose from the breakfast -table, and be- 
gan to talk quite lightly of that poor devil’s — as he called Cave 
Harding— early career. 

“ I assure you, Horace, a man one has met everywhere — the 
smartest of the smart — immensely taken up by the very first people, 
both men and women. Ho wonder either — a brilliant talker — in 
fact, quite a wit; people quoted his sayings. Such a face and figure, 
too — and these he retains even now. 1 met him two years ago on a 
Rhine steamer; but I pretended not to see him— altogether I thought 
it kinder, you know. His dress — he used to be quoted as a model on 
all those matters — had become positively seedy; but, except that, I 
never saw anyone so little changed in — let me see — it must be 
twenty years. At a little distance, he still looks quite a young man. 
To be sure, he never drank. So much to his credit, one may say; 
but, on my honor, I’m afraid that is about the only vice he has not 
got.” 

Here Horae e, pour prendre unmamtien, broke into a forced laugh, 
- and also began to pace about the fine, spacious old room. 

“ Ha, ha, ha! What a description! A tempting father-in-law, 
certainly!” 

But Sir Howard, never good at taking a joke, thereupon grew 
grave instantly. 

“ Father in-law,” he cried; “ 1 had rather see anybody 1 cared for 
tie a mill-stone round his neck, than wed the child of such a man.” 

And, magnificent in his enormous respectability, he strode from 
the room. 


54 


SILYERMEAD. 


CHAPTER X. 

Between the above interview and the arrival of Lilia’s promised 
letter on the Saturday morning, the two distinct men wiio inhabited 
our hero’s body waged fierce war, and even went so far as to use 
violent and most abusive language one to the other. The dis- 
interested lover, with his ready eloquence, his impetuosity and mag- 
nanimous ideas, alternately got the better or worst of the strife with 
the dutiful nephew— the politic and ambitious man of the world, 
who looked forward, not to one day basely clutching and hoarding 
heaps of gold, but also to that holding of the head aloft which 
wealth, combined with position, allows a man so sweetly to indulge 
in. 

During the first twenty-four hours the latter individual most cer- 
tainly got the best of the conflict; but as the portentous moment ap- 
proached which was to bring to Horace that magic thing, the first 
letter from the first being he had ever loved, all liis prudence, pride 
and policy, his anger at having fallen into a trap which was never 
laid for him, in short every feeling which was opposed to the des- 
potic reign of Miss Harding in his heart and soul, seemed gradually 
to suffer a creeping paralysis, which utterly surprised and bewildered 
Horace; so that by the hour the servant brought him his letters, a 
little before breakfast time, he had grown to that state of mind that 
he feared nothing so much as that the promised missive should either 
hint at releasing him from vows so impetuously made, or in any 
otherwise savor of coolness or hesitation. 

There were four letters for him this Saturday morning, all one 
a-top of the other, like a pack of cards. As certain gamblers will look 
at a decisive hand scrap by scrap, from dread of ending their “sus- 
pense, either for good or ill, too suddenly, so Horace now slowly 
made a sort of fan of his four epistles, and thus brought his lady’s 
letter to view bit by bit, and by slowest degrees. The top one was 
from his London tailor, the next from a scribbling farmer, who was 
always appealing to him against Mr. Brandling, "the agent, and the 
third — ha! that must be it! You see he never for a moment doubt- 
ed that Lilia would keep her word. The shortest acquaintance with 
her would convince any one that what she promised she would ful- 
fill. Horace had never before seen a line of her handwriting; but 
when now he first beheld it, it was so wonderfully like herself, that 
he felt he would have recognized it at a glance, without assistance 
from either monogram or post mark. The writing was easjq round 
and flowing, and oh, so clear! just like Camilla’s limpid eyes. 

As he slipped his forefinger inside the envelope to tear it open, 
however, the breakfast-bell rang. Horace was too anxious for a 
peaceful perusal of the treasured contents to spoil that treat by a 
cursory glance, and he accordingly consigned the letter unopened to 
his inside breast pocket, and hurried down to confront his ever 
punctual uncle at table. 

The meal presented no feature of interest, and was dispatched, as 
by mutual consent, more quickly than usual. Horace drank an un- 
accustomed quantity of strong tea, but eat scarcely anything. No 


SILYERMEAD. 


55 


sooner free, than he seized his smoking-cap as he ran through the 
hall; filled his pipe as he tripped down the lawn, whistling care- 
lessly the while in very excess of feverish curiosity, and vaulting 
lightly over some rails at the lower end, he flung himself down in 
■one of those heavenly spots — a hayfield without haymakers. 

Here is the letter: — 

“ I cannot begin by calling you Mr. — and you w*ould hardly ex- 
pect me to venture on your Christian name just yet — 1 mean your 
Pagan name, for Horace never belonged to any saint that I heard of. 
You must call me first by mine, and then I will say ‘ dear Horace.’ 
I like Horace; 1 think it is a sweet name, but then, perhaps, that is 
because 1 like you. 1 am locked in my bedroom — by my ow r n hand, 
1 mean— to be quite quiet to write to you. 1 intend to write a long 
letter. 1 hope you like long ones? Tell me next time we meet — yon 
must not answer this. 1 should so love to have a letter from you, 
but gran’ma would want to see it, and I would rather not get one at 
all than that. If she agrees not to look at your letters, 1 shall make 
you w rite me packets of them. You will be surprised to hear 1 have 
only just told her — gran’ma — about you. I put it off and put it off 
because — well first 1 must tell you that she and I don’t get on very 
well. It is not all her fault. 1 blame myself very often about it. 
The last few days we have been very uncomfortable together. 
Horace, l want to have no secrets from you ; yet there are things I 
hate to enter upon— quarrels, for instance. 1 think 1 meant in this 
letter to tell you everything, but now 1 feel it w-ould be easier to me, 
and also easier to make jmu understand certain sad ” (here a word was 
erased) “ and complicated things by word of mouth, sol want you to 
come over on Monday about three. I will tell my gran’ma, and then 
we shall be sure to be at home. Do come, mind. It is very impor- 
tant. Oh, 1 do want to see you. Monday is soon, and so you w*on’t 
say I was wrong not to tell you certain things in my letter. But I 
will tell you what has just passed between gran’ma and me. 

‘ ‘ I said : 

“ ‘ Gran’ma, 1 have been wanting to tell you something ever since 
1 came back. ’ 

“ ‘Yes, love?’ She always says ‘yes, love,’ even when she is 
angry. It means nothing and is only a habit. 

‘ But 1 have not had the opportunity. Mr. Acton was here all 
the morning, and — ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, never mind all that, tell me now*.’ 

“ ‘ 1 have had a proposal/ 

“ I said this without looking at her. You don’t know how* she 
has annoyed me latelv. And, oh, is that the way 1 should have told 
her if I loved her! There, 1 have said it. It sounds so wdcked, but 
1 don’t think God wull punish me because of the reason. She loves 
me in her ow r n way, but to others, some others, she is so hard, and 
that is what hardens me, who am not naturally a hard girl. 

“ ‘ A proposal, love! 1 think 1 can guess. Mr. Acton. It is he, 
is it not?’ 

“ ‘ Certainly not.’ 

“ ‘ Not he? Oh, 1 am sorry. 1 suppose then you have refused 
jhe other offer, w T hoever made it, as I am sure you know no one else 


56 


SILVERilEAD. 


well enough to accept him, and, indeed/ she added, drawing herself 
up, ‘ 1 canuot conceive who has presumed — ’ 

“ ‘It was no presumption ! A great honor. ’ 

“ ‘ Child, you take my breath away. It can’t be old Lord—’ 

“ ‘ It isn’t Lord anybody.’ 

“ ‘ Then I give it up.’ 

“ ‘ It is Mr. Horace Brudenell/ 

“ ‘ What, that boy of Sir Howard’s!’ 

“ * Sir Howard Brudenell’s nephew.’ 

“ ‘ I had rather it was Acton.’ 

“ * Why so, gran’ma?’ 

“ ‘We know him so much better, and — he is so rich.’ 

“ * I hate riches.’ 

“ ‘ Then you are a fool,’ she said, laughing, ‘ but 1 daresay this 
one has money enough. Come and kiss me, love. ’ 

“ So I went and got the kiss, and then she sat holding my hand, 
and said: 

* * ‘ Though 1 should have preferred the other, and have even been 
making sure of it, I want to see you mariied before I die. And, 
well, what does Sir Howard say V’ 

“ ‘ 1 don’t know. Perhaps he has not been told yet. ’ 

“ * Not told?’ she was beginning, excitedly. 

“ * I can’t tell,’ I said, stopping her. ‘ I fancy he will wait for 
your consent before telling Sir Howard.’ 

“ * 1 can hardly think,’ she went on, ‘ that this boy ’ — sue will call 
you a boy, you see, but it is too bad of her; I think you are quite, 
quite a man — ‘ this boy would take so important a step without Sir 
Howard’s full knowledge and approval. Such a course would be 
rash in the extreme, and might lead to the most disastrous conse- 
quences. But stay, 1 was forgetting another person whose opinion 
in the matter is of some consequence too. I mean jmurself ; though 
1 suspect from your manner that you look upon Mr. Brudenell’s suit 
with favor — eh? How is it? You did not refuse him. ’ 

“ * Oh, no, gran’ma. ’ 

“ ‘ You accepted him, then?’ 

‘ ‘ 1 nodded my head. 

“ Presently I said — 

“ ‘ I do not remember my formal question, nor do I think 1 pro- 
nounced the word “yes;” but 1 told him 1 w T ould tell you about it, 
and of course, he knows I like him. ’ 

“ Then I ran away to write you this letter. I am — oh! so afraid 
you won’t like it. It is not the least bit in the world like the one I 
meant to write, but I have often noticed on less important occasions 
what a difference it makes having the pen in one’s hand. 1 mean in 
writing to my girl-friends ; but now it is written, it has got to go. 
Dear me, what a length it is ! 

‘ ‘ Mind you don’t forget. Monday at three. You can’t think 
how important it is I should see you then, or wliat serious, things I 
have to tell you. Good-by. Youis, 

“ C. H. 

“ P.S.— I forgot to say gran’ma said, somewhere in the middle of 
our conversation, that 1 was behaving very badly to Mr. Acton, who, 
she is sure, has great hopes. I do not believe he cares for me ex- 


SILVEKMEAD. 


57 

cept as an old friend. That is the only -way 1 care for him. So, if 
you hear any gossip to the contrary just don’t believe it. Mind you 
do not. I forbid you to be jealous any more. Don’t forget you are 
not to write, but to call and ask for gran’ma on Monday at three. 
Good-by.” 

That was the letter. Horace thought it a very odd one, and he 
was right. He asked himself whether he was not just a little dis- 
appointed, and then strove to persuade himself that he was not. To 
be sure, he had expected an unreasonable amount of delight from 
the perusal of these sheets of note paper. As it was, he was more 
puzzled than pleased, yet he was pleased — with most of it. The 
postscript he did not like. Why had Camilla written all that about 
Acton? There was an amount of qui s’ excuse s' accuse about it, 
which rankled in Brudenell’s mind. At the same time he could not 
deny that the general ring of the letter was candid and unstudied. 
True, but was this stamp which the young writer had given it the 
result of nature or deep calculation ? Was it untoward circumstances 
alone which seemed ever to be drawing Horace to doubt of this girl 
who had inthralled him, or was he naturally suspicious; or, in fine, 
were there in this instance just grounds for his being so? Had not 
Miss Harding fallen into his arms a little too much like the pro- 
verbial garden thrush? Young men of Brudenell’s age are not apt 
to under-rate theii attractiveness, and he was no exception to the 
rule ; yet this did not blind him utterly to the almost unnatural sud- 
denness and completeness of the conquest, if conquest it were. A 
sudden and unromantic interruption befell his meditations at this 
precise point in the form of a tobacco pouch flung at his Apollo-like 
head, and his familiar, Jack Forbes, appeared upon the scene. 

“ Hallo, Jack! is that you?” and with this highly sensible ques- 
tion Brudenell greeted his only great friend and the being in all the 
earth — without, perhaps, excepting one — whom at that moment he 
was best pleased to see. “ That was a good shot for a short-sighted 
man. ’ ’ 

“ How often am 1 to tell you that we of low vision cease to be so 
when we stick a glass in our eye? How could 1 sketch in the hori- 
zons in my little daubs if I couldn’t see far?” 

“ True, I forgot your horizons.” 

“Naturally enough; your sense of beauty affects nearer and 
different objects, especially just now.” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“ Come, Horace, don’t be a hypocrite, to me of all men,” said the 
■fvdus Achates, throwing himself down beside his friend and lighting 
up (I mean as*to his pipe). 

“ What, you have observed!” 

“ 1 have observed! Ha, ha, ha! Oh, these lovers! these lovers! 
What, man? Do you suppose that because you are in love— and 
therefore for the time, no longer an accountable or observant being 
—that everybody else is in the same blissful state of —of — of ‘ cussed- 
ness ’?” 

‘ ‘ Do you mean to say you — you heard it noticed the other night 
by many people?” 


58 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ It was simply the talk of the room from the moment you danced 
your first Lancers with her.” 

“ How did 1 show it?” 

“How? As every ass— 1 beg pardon — as every fellow does. 1 
don’t know that I was ever asked to analyze the outward symptom 
of the disease before, but there’s nothing more deuced easy. The 
main feature is a sheepishness which is unspeakably comic to the on- 
looker. ” 

“ Indeed!” This with a smile that was not joyful. 

“ Ye— es,” drawled Jack, “ you had that awfully — ” 

“Ha!” 

“ Now, old man, as a rule, you are not sheepish.” 

“ 1 see.” 

“ And that is what made it so absurd.” 

If you can imagine the persecution of a gnat being some distrac- 
tion to you in grief, say at the death of your mother-in-law, you may 
conceive the effect of this conversation on our heio. 

Still that effect was not pleasant. So all the world knew his 
secret, did they? Bother them! Why could not they, the world, 
have the* sense to fall in love too? — it was a very pleasant thing to 
do, and so mind their own affairs. Of course, "this was nousense. 
How, for instance, could old little Dr. McFinn be expected to fall in 
love? And if he did, what chance was there of his passion being 
requited? 

Suddenly Horace’s thoughts took a more practical, and, alas! more 
alarming turn. If his love for Miss Harding was really the talk of 
that memorable ball-room, was not his uncle certain to be informed 
of the discovery by the first loose-tongued gossip he might chance 
to meet. 

Heie was something palpabty weightier than the sting of a gnat, 
but he kept it to himself. “It is confoundedly annoying, Jack,” 
he said at last, “ to think one can’t admire a girl without having it. 
commented on by every fool in the county.” 

“ That’s not the worst of it.” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“ It’s much woise for the girl.” 

“ Well really, Forbes, 1 don’t see how my respectful admiration — 
even if it makes me ridiculous — ” 

“ Tut, Jut, my good boy, 1 don’t mean that.” 

“ Then what the deuce do you mean?” asked Horace, his temper 
rising, not exactly against Jack, but the world in general. 

“ I mean that it was even more evident the other night— even than 
that you were a — a gone coon — that, that — ” 

. “ Do go on, can’t you? 1 hate a fellow smoking when he’s got 
anything to say, for he pauses to tantalize you whenever he chooses, 
under pretense of puffing away to keep his pipe alight.” 

“ Well, then, I say it was patent to every one that Miss Harding 
was even spoonier on you than you on her.” 

“ Never!” 

“1 swear it!” 

“ I never thought of that! To be sure 1 didn’t dream she had 
shown anything.” 


'SILYERMEAD. 59 

And he thought to himself: “ I must stand by her now more than 
ever! Aye, ■through tire and water!” 

”1 am very sorry to hear that,” he told Forbes— “ not, mind 
you, but that it flatters me, of course; but if obstacles should 
arise — ” * 

“Obstacles! The devil,” cried Jack, “are you there already? 
Then you mean to marry her?” 

“ What do you take me for?” 

“ Of course, of course, but after all, a mere ball-room flirtation- 
do you mean to saj r you have popped?” 

By this time Horace’s native good humor had so far returned — as 
regards his friend at least — that he got up and laying his hand on 
the other’s shoulder, said — 

“ Jack, old fellow, I must make a clean breast of it, to you at 
least. I’ll tell you all about it. Jack, you haven’t the slightest 
idea how 1 adore that girl. ’ ’ 

A. tremendous squeeze of the hand was the confidant’s sole reply, 
and then somehow Horace found that he could not see clear — not a 
yard — not as far as his short-sighted comrade. The landscape was 
all blurred. He was vastly surprised at this, and still more ashamed, 
so he turned away his head. But Jack, who w T as himself a regular 
girl at heart in a good sense, thought none the less of him for this 
little involuntary display of emotion; and he resolved to leave where 
it was his unfinished list of the comic features of the love complaint. 

It then befell that as the two young men strolled about the fair and 
undulating park of Massing, on that beautiful spring morning, Hor- 
ace took his friend entirely into his confidence, keeping back from 
him nothing whatever— not even his furious but now dispelled jeal- 
ousy of young Acton, not even his uncle’s hopes concerning Lady 
Susan Graye. And good Jack Forbes was thrice worthy of the trust 
so blindty placed in him. Honorable of course he was, and incapa- 
ble of repeating a word. This is a common virtue; but he combined 
these with two others which are not met with every day. He was 
sympathetic, and last not least, he loved Horace too truly to give 
him any advice or opinions for the mere sake of pleasing him. The 
latter had fortunately too much good sense to be hurt at Jack’s can- 
dor. When an epanchement takes place under such unusually 
favorable circumstances, it is no wonder that he who confides, at 
least, should derive much solace and moral bracing up from the in- 
terview, and Horace felt, as they turned up the avenue toward the 
house and luncheon, that he would on no account have missed 
seeing Forbes that day, albeit that his last sentence w T as far from 
being of a purely comforting nature. 

“ To sum up then, old man,” Jack said, “ here is your position. 
It is a very mixed one, presenting many discouraging difficulties, 
balanced — I might perhaps say more than balanced — by certain 
favorable features of great weight. Thus, if your having nothing of 
your own, and your uncle’s avowed disapproval of the match, are to 
be set down as dead against you, on the other hand it must be in 
fairness remembered that you have w*on the lady’s heart, will no 
doubt have the support of Lady Prendergast to the utmost of her 
great energy, and above all, that you are very young and, if the 
worst came to the worst, } T ou have lots of time and all the world 


60 


SILVEmiEAD. 


before you to work your way. So, with such a prize in view as 
Miss Harding’s hand, you are not the man I take you for if you 
will ever say 4 die.’ ” 


CHAPTER XI. 

On entering the dining-room Horace was not a little perturbed to 
find that Sir Howard had guests, and these none other than the Most 
Noble the Marquis of Caulfield and his august spouse and daugh- 
ter. His uncle at once directed Horace, somewhat ostentatiously the 
latter thought, to a vacant place at the stately Lady Susan’s side, 
who was all smiles — as far as such a being could find it in her dig- 
nity to be all smiles — to receive him. 

Since the event which Horace, somewhat profanely perhaps, 
termed a merciful dispensation of Providence — I mean that very 
otherwise unimportant death of the aged cousin, which had robbed 
the county ball of the Caulfield luster, Horace had mentally shelved 
Lady Susan, until her name had accidentally cropped up in the 
course of making a clean breast of it to his confidant, and he felt 
just a little awkward about how he should treat, under the assem- 
bled watchful e} T es, this vast embodied honor which he had now so 
completely made up his mind to reject. 

I must stop here tor a moment to explain — not that, believe me, I 
think j r ou can have any doubt on the subject, only there are other 
readers who may— that Horace had given no sort of hint to Jack 
that her ladyship felt the slightest preference for him, but had put 
all upon Sir Howard’s sanguine ambition. Did he show Jack his 
inamorata’s letter? By no means; not so much as a square eighth 
of an inch of its precious envelope. Some, nay much, of the pur- 
port of its contents he necessarily explained to Jack, but as to sub- 
mitting the magic sheet to any eye but his own — no, my good friend,, 
in Brudenell’s world they don’t show ladies’ letters, unless little- 
pink or blue invitations to lawn tennis and afternoon tea. 

But to resume. 

“ And so you really go up to town next week?” asked Sir How- 
ard of Lady Caulfield. 

“ Yes, I think about Thursday; Caulfield is wanted for a division 
on Friday, and it never does to put things off to the last moment; 
we dine at the French embassy on Saturday. ’ ’ 

“ And when shall we see you, then?” 

This time it was Lady Susan who spoke, questioning Horace. 

“ 1?” he answered, half absently, “ oh, 1 don’t suppose I shall go 
up at all. ’ ’ 

“ Not!” was all the young lady uttered, but there was a world of 
reproof in her tone. 

“What nonsense are you talking, nephew?” interrupted Sir 
Howard with that peculiar expression of face and voice which, to the 
onlookers, is meant to pass as banter, but to him addressed is in- 
ten dea to convey — 

“ 1 say, you young idiot, what are you about? What the devil’s 
the use of my plotting for you, if this is the mull you make of it 
all?” 

Horace’s one thought just now was to avoid brushing his relative 


SILVERMEAD. 


61 


the wrong way. Coloring up, he laughingly declared he was wildly 
delighted to don his war paint and invade Babylon; but persisted at 
the same time in declaring that this was the first intimation which 
had been vouchsafed him of the good news. He then proceeded 
mentally to bless the charming limits which conventionality places 
upon intercourse among the ‘ ‘ upper ten. ’ ’ 

“Positively,” he gratefully reflected, “in this present year of 
grace what passes between such a couple as myself and my fair 
neighbor, on an occasion like this, would be almost identical 
whether we were as we are, or whether I felt myself to be her de- 
voted slave for life! Shyness and love would, in the latter case, 
make me as reserved as utter indifference and love for another ren- 
der me under the actual circumstances! All hail, then, artificiality!” 

“ How did you enjoy your ball the other night, Mr. Brudenell?” 
asked Lady Caulfield. 

“ “Well, it was like most country balls— rather a crush for a couple 
of hours, and then as decided a collapse.” 

“1 don’t think you had much of a loss, Lady Susan,” putin 
Jack. 

“But we had,” said the hypocritical Horace, right gallantly, to 
please his uncle, whose eyes was upon him. 

“You must make amends by being liberal of waltzes to him in 
London,” Sir Howard said, improving the occasion. “ 1 shall pack 
him oft in ten daj^s or so, and insist on his doing the season relig- 
iously in all its phases. Y"ou are not aware, perhaps, that it is his 
first/ He has had, to be sure, for the last few years, a stray week or 
fortnight of it now and then, but this time I mean to make him do 
it in style.” 

Here the baronet tossed off his second glass of brown sherry, and 
weut on — 

‘ ‘ Nothing so bad for a young man as to get countrified. It is 
very good tor the health, 1 daresay, but ruination to his manners. 
Am 1 not right, Lady Caulfield?” 

“ Eh? — oh dear, yes, most — most undoubtedly,” protested her 
ladyship, who hardly knew so much as the bare subject referred to, 
for the dear marchioness was very much of an epicure, and her 
spirit happened at the moment to be riveted upon a cheese souffle , 
but her lord, though hardly master, who was familiar with the 
situation (she scarcely ever listened to him at meals), came to the 
rescue: 

“Oh, to be sure— to be sure— yes; oh, dear gracious me, how 
right you L are, Sir Howard! Town life, in moderation of course, 
teaches a young man to know the world and Himself. Nothing so 
much brushes away the cobwebs of the mind, nothing — nothing.” 

Lord Caulfield repeated the last word, not with any view to em- 
phasis, but to gain time as to what to say next. It was a habit he 
had contracted in the House of Lords. He, too, now took a glass of 
wine and pursued : 

‘ * How many a young fellow, under the stagnation of the coun- 
try, has brooded over some stupid a-a -amourette — a — yes, amourette 
— until he has mistaken it for the master passion of his life— some- 
times it is a little rustic thing utterly below him, sometimes a girl 
more in his own position perhaps, but practically either from want 


SILVERMEAD. 


62 

of money or other causes, equally out of the question, as far as "he is 
concerned.” 

Here came an emphatic “ Quite so, ’ from his host, worth a round 
of applause. 

“Very well then, very well then,” continued Lord Caulfield, 
“ what happens? If left among the cabbages, he either makes a fool 
of himself by marrying liis— his rosebud, or his friends break his 
lieart for him by sending him away. But 1 say let the same young 
fellow only come up to" town, let him attend a few of those great 
annual — um— a — girl-shows— the chief balls of the season — ” 

“ Oh Caulfield, for shame! We are not in Turkey— and before 
Susan, too,” put in his wife 

“ Fudge, my dear,” he rejoined; ” I am only calling things by 
their proper names. 1 say let him see what England can do in the 
way of exhibiting the cream of her beauty, grace, charm, dignity, 
et cetera—” and here his lordship cast an imperceptible glance at his 
daughter — “ and the chances are that if anybody, three weeks later, 
asks the young fellow after his little derelict down in his native 
shire, he will have forgotten her very name; and nothing could in- 
duce him to believe he ever seriously cared for her.” 

“ Why, papa, you quite eloquent to-day,” exclaimed Lady Susan; 
“ why don’t you talk like that in the House?” 

There was a laugh, and then a general move to the gardens ; and 
Horace determined to go with the current, and just ascertain 
whether there was a tacit plot between his uncle and the Caulfields 
to throw him alone with Lady Susan. He more than half suspected 
that the hereditary legislator’s flow of oratory -was inspired by local 
gossip, and aimed at poor sweet little Lilia and himself. Needless 
to say this thought made his very blood boil, and caused him to take 
unnumbered oaths, that even if the persecuting wretches who com- 
posed Sir Howard’s cabal, as he termed it — and be sure he failed 
not to join Miss Laifinch’s name to the others— were to poison his 
betrothed bride, and drag her lifeless to his feet, even then wild 
horses should not force him to marry Lady Susan Graye. Not that 
this spleen was especially directed against that dull and statuesque 
young aristocrat. No, he believed she was simply obeying the 
orders of those who had brought her up to deem their commands 
infallible. With such a nature then as hers, it was highly probable 
that if she did care for him a little, her feelings were as obedient as 
her outward acts, and that she could stop loving upon command as 
promptly as she could enter upon that interesting occupation. And 
Horace pitied the poor girl for the somewhat ridiculous part which 
her noble parents— it was not very easy to tell why— had elected that 
she should play. But then Sir Howard was such a grand diploma- 
tist, that Lord and Lady Caulfield were almost as complete puppets 
in his hands as was Lady Susan in theirs. 

The event now proved his suspicions to be correct. Two minutes 
after they had all left the dining-room, the f&ir Susan, Jack, and 
Horace, were isolated together— Forbes purposely spoiling the game, 
in supposed compliance with his friend’s unexpressed wishes— but 
in another moment or so Lady Caulfield’s voice was heard hailing 
from afar. ® 


SILYEKMEAD. 63 

“ Mr. Forbes! Mr. Forbes! Oh, come, make haste, and help me 
out of a difficulty. 1 can’t undo the boat!” 

This was almost too much even for her daughter, who had at 
least all the usages of society at command, if little else; and she 
turned as if lo detain Jack, saying: 

“ Oh, Mr. Forbes, 1 warn you, don’t go. Mamma is so devoted 
to rowing, that if she once gets you on the lake, you will never es- 
cape.” 

But she was quite safe in saying this, Jack being far too sharp to 
take words for more than they were worth, and declaring, “ It will 
be an honorable slavery at any rate,” off he ran. 

“ 1 wonder what you are going to say to me,” said our hero to 
himself. 

There was a short pause as they strolled into the shrubbery. Then 
the lady said: 

“ Only think, Mr. Brudenell, of your having been so little in Lon- 
don. 1 should never have guessed it.” 

“ No! — and why?” 

44 Because you are not a bit countrified,” she pursued, laughing, 
44 1 mean not in the least.” 

44 Indeed!” 

‘‘You know you are not, and then you have such lots to say for 
yourself, which is generally a sign, 1 have found, of people having 
been about a great deal. Don’t you think it is so?” 

“ Well, 1 have not had your opportunities of judging. I suppose 
though, that it is with ideas in a human being as with sweets in a 
conjuror’s box.” 

‘‘ I do not understand.” Poor Lady Susan lived in constant fear 
of people saying things too clever for her comprehension and of 
being made to appear stupid thereby. 

‘‘ 1 mean,” added Horace, ‘‘ that the more you take out the more 
remains in ; whereas, even 1 have noticed that great readers — 1 don’t 
mean of novels — who, you would think, had their minds so richly 
stored, if they only lack the habit of conversation, are wonderfully 
apt to be either silent as the tomb, or heavy as lead. ” 

“ Quite so,” was all she felt equal to remarking. This talk might 
be highly instructive, but then it inight also take place across any 
dinner table. Lady Susan had a vague inkling that discussion upon 
abstract of abstruse subjects was hardly what she had been sent into 
the shrubbery for. She changed the conversation : 

“ You must mind and come and see us as soon as ever you come 
to town. Remember — 200, Belgrave Square. Mamma is always at 
home on Thursdays;” and she looked up with her best smile at her 
companion’s face. • 

“ Poor thing,” he thought,” if people angled in this unsophisti- 
cated manner for trout, 1 wonder how many fish would be caught.” 

They emerged upon a parterre of flowers. 

‘‘Oli, what lovely roses!” exclaimed Lady Susan, with a little 
real enthusiasm. 

“ Yes, considering we are hardly in May, it is not a bad show. ” 

44 May 1 pick some?” 

“ Oh, pray allow me to save you that trouble.” 


64 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ Very well, if you will pick a great number for me, I will pick 
this white one for you. That will be a division of labor.” 

“ Oh, dear — oh, dear!” mentally sighed Horace, “ what a dull 
thing is love-making with the love left out!” 

They had walked round nearly to the spot where Lady Caulfield 
and Jack Fobes had tempted the fickle wave, but the water was hid- 
den from them at this moment by a massive clump of rhododendrons. 

Hark! there is a splash, a woman’s frantic scream, a man’s loud 
cry for help ; and our rose pluckers rush wildly to the rescue. 


CHAPTER XII. 

'W hat is going on this same Saturday afternoon at Silvermead? 

Lady Prendergast sits erect in her favorite high-backed chair — 
what will not custom make comfortable — in her favorite room— the 
state drawing-room. The old lady has a soul above boudoirs and les 
petits appartements generally. She has likewise a horror of dressing 
gowns, tea gowns, and all such apologies for being clad; confound- 
ing them a good deal with night gowns. Indeed, she is a rather 
full-dress olrl lady all round; seldom condescending in her own at- 
tire to any less stately materials than Lyons velvet at a guinea a 
yard, or satins and gros-de-naples, which “ come into that neighbor- 
hood,” as the “ slangites ” would put it. She is, in fact, the sworn 
enemy to the present craze for lounging away our lives; and, right 
or wrong, she will most certainly live and die true to the traditions 
which produced her. Camilla stands a few feet off, and Cyril Acton 
is taking leave, hat in hand, after an afternoon call. What had 
passed between these three is apparently of a momentous and excit- 
ing nature, for the two young people seemed flushed and anxious, 
while Lady Prendergast has a deeper line than -usual between her 
brows, and steadies her voice with difficulty as she says: 

“ No, Mr. Acton, I am not angry— not angry with you at least. I 
am sorry that you should have taken so much trouble in vain.” 

” 1 am very sorry to have failed, of course.” 

Here he glanced at Camilla, from whose eyes there shot flames of 
Are as they met Acton's without a gleam of shame or confusion. 
Thev seemed to say— 

“ Heed her not, she shall never subdue me.” 

” 1 do not wish you,” pursued the old lady, “ to leave this house 
with any lingering misapprehension on your mind. Have 1 made 
myself quite clear?” 

“ 1 — I think so.” 

“ My conclusions are two, not hard to remember, if you separate 
them from all the discussions we have had to go into. First then, 
your request is refused once and for all. Secondly, in consequence 
of that refusal, as also on account of the new circumstances in 
which my grandchild now finds herself, 1 must beg, nay, 1 insist, 
that you meet her no more. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, Lady Prendergast, there is no danger of my forgetting 
either of those points.” 

This Mr. Acton said with unconcealed bitterness. 

“ As for Camilla, 1 have expressly forbidden her to see or com 


SILVERMEAD. 


65 

municate with you again, and she is bound by every law, human 
and divine, to show me obedience. For yourself, 1 kuow you well 
enough lo feel sure that you will make it a point of honor not to 
tempt this misguided girl to disobey me. Personally, I need hardly 
tell you that 1 am very, very sorry that for a long ’time at least we 
shall meet no more. ’ ’ 

Lady Prendergast here extended her hand, which he took, and 
they exchanged a mutual “ Good-by.” 

” King the bell, Camilla, will you?” she said. “ They will bring 
your horse round.” 

“ Thank you so much, but 1 told them I would come to the 
stables. Good-by.” 

“ Grandma, 1 don’t think this bell rings. 1 will try the one in the 
hall,” and -despite a stern “ Camilla!” from her relative, which she 
affected not to hear, she and Cyril Acton disappeared from the 
room together. 

“ I dare not walk round with you,” she said, in a hurried whis- 
per. “Oh! how shall 1 ever thank you?” 

“ Lilia, when you know I am more than repaid by — ” 

“ Oh, bless you!” she went on, wringing his hand, her head half 
turned back lest they should be unawares watched. “ Oh 1 am 
ashamed to ask the question, but — you will be there?” 

“1 swear it!” he said, pressing to his lips the little while hand 
which still held his. 

And he was gone, while Camilla flew back to her grandmother 
somewhat indifferent, it must be owned, to the scolding which she 
well knew awaited her. 

“ Camilla,” began Ihe old lady, “ do you think me a fool?” 

“ By no means,” returned the girl, defiantly, as though to say she 
might think many unfavorable things of her, but not that. 

“ Then why do you think you can deceive me?” 

“ But do 1 think so?” 

“ It seems so. Do you imagine 1 do not know why you went out 
with Mr. Acton?” 

The girl was silent. 

“I feel convinced,” pursued the other, in a tone pathetic from 
the horror which the words she was saying inspired her with, “ that 
in spite of the awful sin which it involves, you have asked Acton to 
meet you again. ’ ’ 

Another silence. 

‘ ‘ Do you hear ? Speak ! ’ ’ 

“ What you said was not a question. You said you were con- 
vinced; you asked me nothing.” 

“ This is equivocation, girl. I command you to answer me! Did 
you ask that young man to meet you again— yes or no?” 

“ N — no.” 

“ Did you agree to meet him?” 

“I did not.” 

“ Not to write or be written to?” 

“No.” 

“ All this on your honor?” 

“ Am 1 in the habit of telling lies?” 


SILVEKMEAD. 


66 

‘ ‘ You are not, thank God ; but 1 have a right, and 1 choose to ask 
you all this on your honor. Have you spoken truly?” 

‘ 4 1 have. ’ ’ 

The girl had been standing since she re-entered the room, leaning 
•with both arms on one of those low-seated high-backed chairs called 
a prie-dieu, a concession of Lady Prendergast to the comfort of the 
degenerate. She was facing her grandmother, who habitually sat 
with her back to the windows, and tho light which now streamed in 
through them fell upon the pale and resolute, but withal apparently 
candid face of the granddaughter. 

This unexpected denial staggered the fine old lady visibly. 

“ Camilla,” she said, in a" very low and solemn voice, “ 1 have 
ever found you truth itself. I am bound to believe that your words 
now are literally true, if no more. Still, I fear — I know that you 
are keeping something back from me. Child,” she went on, and 
her voice lost its sternness and became on a sudden so piteous that 
even Camilla, who loved her not, and who had especially hardened 
her heart against her on this occasion, seemed sensibly moved by it 
— “ Child, you know I am miserable; a word from you can set me 
at rest. What was your true object in leaving the room just now? 
Oh, 1 am no longer commanding— I entreat.” 

“ No, no, gran’ma. 1 — ” 

‘‘Not ovei^ there; here, here in my arms. You know I live but 
for you; that, if I press you to tell me all, it is only and solely for 
your good. ’ ’ 

When the stern grow tender they are endowed with a special and 
very powerful fascination. Camilla may have felt this now, for a 
slight thrill of emotion ran through her, and she had a certain pity 
for Lady Prendergast. But she never moved from where she was. 

“ Why,” she asked herself, ‘‘if I am all in all to her, would she 
not listen to Cyril’s prayer? Unbounded love means unbounded 
sacrifice. I will not be deceived by her. She may not know she is- 
speaking falsely, but 1 know it. She would rather see me dead at 
her feel, with all her boasted love for me, than bend where I want 
her to bend. That is loving herself first, not me, as she pretends.” 
Then aloud, ‘‘I will come to you, grandma; 1 will kiss you and 
thank you for your love, because all this is what 1 can do. Ask me 
nothing more to-day. 1 have spoken the truth to you. I will an- 
swer or tell you nothing more, either because there is nothing more 
to tell or because I cannot tell it. Why pain me by making^ me re- 
peat this again and again? It dreadful.” 

She had come slowly across to where the ancient dame sat, knelt 
— actually she, Camilla, knelt— on the stool at her feet, and putting 
her arms round her grandmother, gave her the very best embrace 
she could command. 

44 Ah!” said her lad^yship, between two moods; “ in one thing, at 
least, you are my very own child! When you do say, ‘I won’t,' 
there’s an end of it.” 

It is easier to surround a fortress than to get inside, and poor Lady 
Prendergast thought of this as she sat there to-day encircling the 
fair young being with her aged arms, whose heart she knew only 
too well that she could not enter. ■ 

“ And now, gran’ma, dear,” said the girl, 44 1 feel tired and worn 


SILYERMEAD. 


67 

out by all this — this piece of work we have had. 1 want to he 
alone. 1 think I could sleep, for I had a bad night. Please let me 
go to my room and lie down till dinner-time.” 

And without waiting for formal permission she gave her relative 
another kiss, and fled away to the solitude she yearned for. 

Perhaps we shall find that Camilla Harding had still more need 
of a good sound afternoon’s sleep, with a view to the night of this 
particular day, than was ever shadowed forth in the above exit 
speech of hers. 

“ Ha!” thought the old lady, as she took refuge from the hard 
things of life in the pleasant ones of fiction, and resumed the half- 
finishecl novel at her side, “ what a blessing that Heaven still spares 
me vigorous eyes! By their help 1 am independent of all the world. 
Heigho! though, 1 wish I could find out how to make my little Lilia 
love me!” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The accident to Lady Caulfield had no serious consequences. It 
was, indeed, from every aspect far more comic than alarming; aris- 
ing as it did in the highly undignified maneuver on her part of 
catching a crab, and thus upsetting the very small boat in which she 
and Jack Forbes were. They were no sooner in the water — a fact 
which, as neither of them could swim a yard, terrified them beyond 
measure — than they found themselves, to their intense delight, on 
land: land, that is, at the bottom of the water-— the lake, which was 
for the most part very deep, being fortunately but about three feet 
six in depth at that particular spot. 

As Horace and Lady Susan reached the brink on one side, Sir 
Howard and Lord Caulfield did so on the other ; and the only won- 
der is, how these four well-bred personages managed to keep their 
risible faculties within any reasonable bounds. 

There, at some twenty yards from the shore, stood the drowners, 
who had called so lustily for help, clinging to each other in a fashion 
which looked like nothing but the most tremendous hugging. Of 
course the lady would have clung to a post in exactly the same 
way, and poor dear Jack thought of nothing but supporting her 
somewhat massive person; but reality and effect are too vastty dif- 
ferent things. They had both in the first plunge been wholly sub- 
merged, and their hair — including that which belonged to the illus- 
trious noblewoman by purchase — and every stitch of garments which 
they wore, were of course as soaked as they could possibly be, and 
adhered lo their persons like the scanty drapery of an antique statue. 

And there they were, and there they had to remain, for no imme- 
diate assistance could possibly be rendered them. Had Horace, for 
instance, plunged in and swam to the very spot, of what conceivable 
use would it have been to them? No, either the only other boat 
must be got out, and it had not been used for months, being out of 
repair, or else the one which now floated away in the distance, keel 
upward, must be recovered, manned, and sent to the rescue, and 
then it was doubtful whether it would bear three persons to shore 
without a recurrence of the catastrophe. 

Be it borne in mind that wading was quite out of the question, be- 


SILVEKMEAD. 


68 

cause the comparatively shallow spot on which the luckless pair 
now stood was a kind of subaqueous plateau, and surrounded on all 
sides by deep water. 

Much delay, therefore, was inevitable; the water was cold, and 
the sufferers’ teeth chattered and their frames shook as if in the most 
violent palsy. Finally, the wind blew the capsized skiff to shore, 
some gardeners went round to land it, and carry it to the spot near- 
est the shipwrecked pair ; and then Horace put off in it, and on 
reaching them— having while on land divested himself of his coat 
and waistcoat — he jumped overboard, and with what little assistance 
Jack could render, he succeeded in lifting the exhausted marchion- 
ess into that boat in which she had embarked so boldly not half an 
hour before. He then swam to the shore with the little bark and its 
heavy tenant in tow, and the lady at last was received by her fam- 
ily more dead than alive. He now-went back for his friend Jack, 
and did likewise for him. 

Meanwhile, a room had been prepared for her ladyship, and when 
they had got her comfortably to bed, such a quantity of hot grog 
was poured by different hands down her throat, that besides being 
horribly scalded about that region and her mouth, the poor lady was 
made — well — most suspiciously talkative, of course all with the best 
intentions in the world. 

Jack Forbes, not being so illustrious an individual, was suffered 
to content himself with such attentions as he might choose to bestow 
upon himself, which were almost nil. 

As to Sir Howard, when he found that the little contretemps was 
likely to liave no serious consequences, he began to look upon it 
quite as a providential blessing. He insisted upon the Caulfields 
sending off for such baggage as they might require for a couple of 
nights, and was uncommonly proud of the dash and generalship 
exhibited by his beloved nephew under Lady Susan’s eye, and for 
the deliverance from her awful position of that rich young lady^s 
mamma. The worthy matron could not, of course, be expected to 
appear at dinner, but the choicest morsels were religiously sent up 
to her room; and the rest of the party, with the addition of Vicar 
Larch, were particularly meny that evening around Sir Howard’s 
mahogany, for it is well known that few things are more exhilarat- 
ing than "the reaction after a danger escaped. 

“ Now is your time,” whispered his uncle to Horace, on their way 
to the drawing-room, giving him quite an affectionate squeeze of 
the arm. And so it was, no doubt, to eveiybod}^ concerned, Horace 
only excepted. But what is the use of having a ball at your feet, 
pray, if you don’t care to kick it? 

Horace was insatiable iu making the fair Susan sing and play to 
him— it saved him the trouble of talking to her. She was a good, 
Sound, cold musician, who, if she never moved, neither did she 
offend you. 

A wonderful middle course is that of making a girl sing you song 
after song. 

You exclaim: 

“ Oh, how charming! You cannot think how exquisitely that 
suits your voice! Might 1— would it be too much to ask for it over 
again? Oh, thanks, enormously!” 


SILVERMEAD. 


69 


Such jargon as this sounds very enthusiastic ; satisfies for the mo- 
ment, at least, the young person, if she care for you; and yet— oh, 
crowning blessing! — it binds you to nothing. 

And so the evening wore away. But Horace’s eyes kept glancing 
furtively at the clock quite as often as they were directed to the 
noble singer’s classic face. He owned to a slight headache, which 
the events of the lake rendered only natural, and the siren, with 
thrice- welcome consideration, herself proposed a somewhat early 
break-up on that account. But no sooner had a general good-night 
been bidden, than Horace sought the old butler, and telling him he 
was certain he should never close an ej T e all night unless he went 
out first for a ramble, arranged that one of the back doors should 
remain unbarred, he being provided with the keys thereof. To 
change his evening clothes for a suit of tweeds was the affair of a 
few moments, and then, with a feeling of infinite relief, our hero 
rushes forth into one of those grand flooding moonlights which rival, 
if they do not surpass, the beauty of the sunniest day. 

And what is his errand, and whither is he bent? In sooth he 
knows not. As the truly devout see in all the universe but one 
grand temple, so a lover deems that any corner of it is a meet place 
for being in spirit with his beloved. An hour, but one little hour of 
blessed solitude beneath the starlit dome of heaven, was all tbe 
young man consciously sought as he issued feverishly from his an- 
cestral halls. 

Yet not more surely does the homing pigeon wing its flight to the 
parent dovecot, than a lover instinctively wends his way toward 
that particular spot of earth where his lady dwells. Why, the very 
horizon on that side looked brighter than at any other point of the 
compass, and there was in the sky which flickered and gleamed over 
Silvermead a kind of hopeful brightness that seemed to beckon him 
unto her he loved. At first his rapid steps lay by slender pathways 
so little trodden that at times they would have been hard to follow 
save by one familiar with their every turn. Stile after stile he lightly 
sprung over: dale, lea, copse and streamlet all in sequence greeted 
the wanderer in their silver splendor, and then after about two miles 
had been traversed he emerged, upon the high road. This he also 
pursued for nearly the like distance, and the rapid exercise he had 
taken began to show its beneficial effect upon mind and body. The 
night was warm and balmy, while not a breath of wind disturbed 
even the topmost plumes of those trees which boasted the earliest 
verdure. A wholesome glow now pervaded Horace’s frame, and 
his headache— a somewhat severer one than he had deigned to own 
to— was entirely gone. A sincere feeling of pity stole over him for 
such of his luckless fellow creatures as were losing this glorious 
night in ignorant sleep, but presently he reflected that unless they 
loved— loved a being like his Camilla— even a night of enchantment 
such as this would be befeltof half its eloquent rapture. And where 
was one other terrestrial angel like to her to be found? Ah, where 
indeed? So fragile, yet so brave; so soft, yet so firm of purpose, so 
—He was just striking off from the highway in the great woods that 
stretch away toward Silvermead, when his reverie was suddenly cut 
short by the sight of a countryman bearing a load, and coming 
slowly toward the road by the very bridle path which he himself 


■70 


SILYERMEAD. 


was about to follow. The sack which he carried on his back caused 
him to stoop considerably, and thus he had evidently not yet seen 
Horace at the moment that the latter became aware of his presence. 
” Confound the fellow,” muttered our hero to himself, “ if this rus- 
tic happens to recognize me, how shall 1 account for my piesence 
here, and who knows what strange tales it may give rise to?” He 
was about to step aside and conceal himself until the man had 
passed, when his design was frustrated by a small terrier dog, the 
property of the countryman, which had been dawdling behind after 
a rabbit, but now dashed furiously forward to clear the road for his 
master, with a degree of fuss, noise, swagger and bounce only to be 
met with in belligerents such as these very small dogs, who are 
secretly yet painfully aware that their real means of aggression or 
defense are ridiculously minute. 

“ Toozer, Toozer, quiet, wall’ee,” said the fellow, looking up, 
and recognizing quality. “ A. begspard’n, a’m shooer — hey! blessed 
if it bain’t Meyster Horrus frey hoop at Grange.” 

‘ Ah, Adam,” rejoined the young gentleman, lemembering the 
night bird at once as a middle-aged farm servant employed by one 
of his uncle’s outlying tenants, “ and what brings you so far afield, 
and at a time when all honest folk should be abed?” 

“ Nay, nay, Meyster Horrus, be no hard on a poor fellow; I’ve 
been but faggotin’ for the missus’ fire. It’s sore times for a day 
laborer with a wife and six little uns to keep on twelve shillin’ a 
week.” 

Horace was not sorry to have established a “ funk,” as he vulgar- 
ly put it, in this man’s mind. 

He improved the occasion. 

“ Faggots, indeed! and how many of them have four legs, if no 
worse? What! my uncle’s keepers are too sharp for you, are they, 
and so you trudge over to plunder my friend Lady Prendergast? ’ 

“ Noa, noa, God bless her honor, I wod neyrob her for kingdoms, 
an’ she sey good to the pool folK. She gev’ us flannels i’ the win- 
ter for the babbies, and — ” 

“ Now then, Adam,” said Horace, stamping in pretended anger, 
“ no more of your jawing, but down with that sack, open it, and 
I’ll judge for myself.” 

The man evidently saw that his best chance lay in obedience. He 
had been up before Sir Howard for poaching some half-dozen years 
ago; but he rightly surmised that of that dread chapter of his his- 
tory “ the young squoire,” as Horace was called, knew nothing. 
Fortunately for Adam, sport had proved shockingly bad that night, 
and but a single rabbit was discovered among the firewood. This 
lie swore that Toozer had killed unurged and entirely upon his own 
personal responsibility, and Horace, who, as we have seen, had rea- 
sons of his own for conciliating the goodwill of the fellow to-night, 
now said in a kindly tone, that he supposed he must accept Adam’s 
version of the situation; and even went so far, or rather fell so low, 
as to toss the latter half-a-crown, not, as he basely declared, to com- 
pensate him for the trouble of emptying his sack, but alas! for the 
highly reprehensible purpose— and one not unknown, it is said, to 
the great ones of this -world — of hush money. 

The man’s fright being now allayed, his faculties, such as they 


SILVERMEAD. 


n 


were, soon recovered from tlie paralysis which the sight of our lover 
had so suddenly brought on. As lie repacked his famous sack, he 
poured forth a perfect torrent of thanks, in the very midst of which, 
however, he stopped dead short, and stood for a few moments 
utterly still — his mouth wide open and his eyes glaring wildly at 
Horace. 

“ What the devil’s the matter now?” cried the young man, who 
could not but laugh at the tragic attitude Into which his humble in- 
terlocutor had so abruptly fallen. “ Speak, man, do you hear? 
Are you struck dumb?” 


Adam, thus adjured, broke forth in a tone of the deepest mys- 
tery — 

“ Hoo, but a’d clean forgot! Wall, to be shoor, a’m powerful 
glad to meet yer honor this night.” Not to inflict you with more of 
the jargon than necessary, let me say that he proceeded to inform 
the astonished Horace that they two were not the only prowlers of 
this fateful night, and that he had been at the moment of their meet- 
ing in deep confab with his apology for a conscience as to whether 
he ought not to proceed at once to Silvermead House and boldly 
give the alarm, or at least follow the marauders and keep a clean eye 
on their proceedings. He declared that he had seen two men, about 
a quarter of an hour before, creeping along, evidently with great 
caution, in the shadow of what was known as the long plantation, 
and in the direction of the house. He was too far off to see much 
more than this for certain — some four or five hundred yards —but he 
felt pretty sure they were young men and dressed like gentlemen. 
He was quite persuaded they were not gamekeepers. It took some 
minutes for our hero to disentangle the above substance from the 
confusion of words — “ lioo’s ” and “ heys ” and other exclamations 
— in which the peasant described what he had seen. He then pro- 
ceeded to take deep but rapid council with himself. 

Adam had worked his own spirit into a state of quite unwonted 
excitement, exhilarated as he was by the reaction from his fear, the 
acquisition of lialf-a-crown, and above all, the immense importance 
which ” tli’ young squoire ” so evidently attached to his words. He 
was prodigal* of advice and assistance. 

“ If 'ee loiks a’ll coom wi’ thee un will — ” 

“ Hush, man, can’t you?” said Horace, severely; “ if you won’t 
hold your tongue, how the devil can I think?” 

“ 1 ax yer pard’n humble, Meyster Horrus, a’ll—” 

“ Silence, 1 say!” 

“ Yees, slioorlie;” and at last he was dumb. 

It required no clairvoyance for Horace to attribute the presence of 
these mysterious wanderers with designs of some sort or other upon 
the peace and happiness of Camilla Harding. His soul being full 
of her, he would naturally — and rightly or wrongly— connect any 
strange event occurring in her immediate vicinity with her whom he 
so passionately loved, and whom he had till now,, at least, every 
reason to believe as pure and good as she was charming. 

Had Adam reported the presence of but one unquiet spirit, the 
puzzle would not have been so great. Since Miss Harding was to 
his own eyes so adorably fair wliymiaht she not have captivated, all 
unknown to herself, other adorers, and why should not any one of 


SILVERMEAD. 


72 

these, finding his couch a mockery, as far as repose was concerned, 
have quitted it for the romantic if unsatisfactory object of gazing 
awhile at the windows of his divinity? 

But two men! That was the wonder. What could two indi- 
viduals possibly be about? Lovers do hot hunt in couples. No, it 
was far more like thieves. 

What puzzled Horace the most was whether to. retain the com- 
pany of Adam, or bid him begone home with his load. There were 
obvious arguments to be urged on both sides of the quesiion. In 
case of violence, either to himself or others, the countryman was 
sure to show plenty of sturdy British pluck, and of his loyalty there 
could be no question. But physical danger is the last thing to 
occupy the attention of a spirited young fellow of two-and-twenty; 
and our hero was far more afraid of finding Adam in the way than 
of missing the assistance of his strong arm — more frightened of his 
loose tongue on the morrow al the village “ pub,” than of presently 
finding himself one against two, with nothing but his fists to protect 
him. 

Such then being the train of his considerations, it is no wonder 
that, after a few moments of hurried thought, lie turned to the 
laborer, and said — 

“ Adam, my mind’s made up; you swear to do as I bid you?” 

“ Ay, ay, shoor, meyster.” 

“ Then get you gone home as fast as you can, never stopping nor 
looking back. Tell no soul that you have seen me or those others 
to-night, and I’ll never say a word about you.” 

The man endeavored in his uncouth way to remonstrate, but in 
vain, so swinging his sack once more over his shoulder, and with a 
parting ‘ ‘ Ma-y sarvice to yer honor, ’ ’ Adam trudged off to the 
bosom of his family. 

Horace heaved a sigh of intense relief at seeing him depart, and 
then, making straight for Silvermead, he hurried on his way. For 
something over a mile he saw nothing, and no incident of any kind 
occurred. He strode along, now following, now quitting, a bridle 
path that wound about in a manner which showed that its con- 
structors had been more in search of beauty than directness, and 
thus his course lay alternately through thick woods and across the 
open park. Horace felt at this period of his ramble that his spirits 
w T ere rising at every stride. Whether his inborn love of adventure 
thrilled at the slight element of danger which the rustic’s revelations 
had imparted to This night watch, or whether a cruel fate, as is often 
the case, mocked him with exultant feelings to render the reaction 
still more poignant, certain it is that Horace’s frame was now strung 
to the very utmost, and the presentiment which filled him that some- 
thing momentous was about to occur was wholly of a hopeful and 
propitious kind. 

He was just emerging from a little copse, at not much more than 
a mile from the house, when even his brave young heart was startled * 
from all its self-possession by a loud sound which, of all possible 
ones, was the last to be expected in that place, and at that time — to 
the degree that not a cannon going oft in his vicinity would have 
more astonished him. This was the shrill and prolonged neighing 
of a horse; there was nothing but deer in Silvermead Park, and Hor- 


SILVERMEAD. 


7a 


ace, on following the sound and turning a dense corner of the planta- 
tion to his right— *which shut oft the animal from view at the mo- 
ment he heard it — now beheld, full in the moonlight, and tied by 
the bridle to a tree, a white-stockinged chestnut hack, which, to his 
still more utter bewilderment, he instantly recognized as a recent 
purchase of his friend Mr. de Basle, and of whose points the latter 
had asked his opinion as they met on the road not ten days before. 
On seeing him the spirited young animal neighed again more loudly 
than before. 

“ What in the name of all that’s conceivable can our worthy 
M.P. be doing all these miles away, in the middle of the night?’* 
exclaimed Horace under liis breath." 

Then, like a flash of lightning that kills you even while it dispels 
the darkness, the thought struck him — 

“ Acton!” 


Yes, Acton was the guest of de Basle’s still, and now it was doubt- 
less he, who under some specious pretext of riding in another direc- 
tion, had borrowed the blooded hack, and galloped over to Silver- 
mead. And why? — 

“ Why— ah, why? 

Construe me that ! The knot lies there ! 

What matters any why ? O God ! the ‘ It is ’ 

Makes the calamity 1” 


Not quite so, however, in this instance, for if Acton came not 
hither for Camilla, little cared Horace whether he were here or no. 
But there was no proof— and as this new light flitted through liis 
brain, it gave a dying glimmer to his hopes — no proof that even if 
Acton did come to woo her, it was at her wish, by her knowledge or 
permission. 

Be the event what it might, there was nothing for it but to push 
on and see — to rush upon his fate and learn it, even should it mean 
despair. He hurried off for the house, the wildest thoughts cours- 
ing through his burning brain — dreams, and visions too vague for 
words to express, and yet so vivid, so terribly real, to his o’er- 
wrought fancy, that he believed they were already taking place. 
’Midst it all, to one faith he firmly clung — Camilla was true, He 
would come upon the scene, breathless indeed, yet giant-strong, to 
behold her seized by ruthless arms. She, fainting, screams, calling 
upon a name — his own. He hurls her aggressors to the ground and 
clasps her to his breast — his pride forever! 

“ Oh, on — on — on!” he cries from his very soul, for suspense is 
killing him. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Horace’s almost certain suspicion that Cyril Acton was either 
now at Silvermead House, or lurking in the neighborhood, was des- 
tined to receive immediate confirmation. Not two hundred yards 
from where the horse was tied, he saw something shining in the 
grass. This proved to be a silver shield upon a russia leather cigar 
case, and on it was clearly engraved in bold characters, the mono- 
gram of C. and A. He flung it down where he had found it and 
hurried on. 


SILYEEMEAD. 


74 


The south front of Silvermead House, which Horace was now 
nearing, with its aspect and approaches, has been sufficiently de- 
scribed in a former chapter. Its outdoor winding stair, leading to 
Miss Harding’s apartments, her own private garden, and the adja- 
cent grove, are still familiar to the reader. It took our hero nearly 
half an hour, after finding the cigar case, to reach the sheltered post 
of observation, whence he had but a few nights previously watched 
the fair spirit of the place disport herself in the moonbeams. The 
distance he might have rushed over, indeed, in a third of the time, 
but his main object was to run the smallest possible risk— on this 
day-like night— of being seen, for how was he to draw any safe in- 
ference from the drama on which he felt, and with ample cause, 
that his whole fate depended, if he rashly warned the actors thereof 
that they were watched? 

He had advanced, then, like a thief in the night, making long cir- 
cuits to hug the favoring shade of trees or hillock — as Beatrice, play- 
ing the lapwing close to the ground — and conducting himself gen- 
erally like a young conspirator against conspirators. And at last he 
stood there in the same familiar spot, having seen on his way no 
further sign of any sort, and heard no unaccustomed sound, save, 
for a while, the occasional and evei-familiar neighing of the fast- 
ened steed, which at last either ceased or became lost in distance. 

Yes, little more than a week ago, he had stood there, love-sick, 
indeed, as man might be, but utterly free from all other anxiety; and 
even doting on his sweet pain. Now, the most mortal anxiety over- 
whelmed him, and he was a prey to the blackest forebodings. That 
the inexplicable proceedings of the night should prove compatible 
with immunity to his beloved — for she was emphatically, and, spite 
of all, still his beloved — that they should foreshadow no attaint to 
her safety, honor, and peace, appeared to him each moment more 
and more impossible to hope for. Alas! bis sanguine mood had 
vanished now, though Horace could by no means tell why. 

Must it be owned? Ah, alack for all human faith and confi- 
dence! As minutes passed by and brought no sign, Horace began to 
fear that Camilla was a willing party to the plot, whatever it might 
be, and a hideous feeling began to grow in his breast — a feeling that 
made him hate himself even more than her — that her love for him 
was all a sham, and that Cyril Acton was now, and had ever been, 
the real object of her affections. 

Suddenly the great tower clock began to toll forth into the mystic 
silence, the witching hour of twelve. 

Exactly as its last stroke ceased to vibrate, the glass doors on the 
terrace slowly opened, and Camilla, clad in some loose robe of dark 
material, cautiously came forth. First she crept to the balustrade 
and leaned over, looking about in every direction. Then she stepped 
back and closed the doors upon the room, wherein no light appeared. 
This done, she proceeded— still very slowly, and with the utmost 
caution— toward the moss-grown stairway, and began to descend its 
winding steps. There could be no sort of doubt of her identity from 
where Horace stood. Had he first seen her thus, and at that dis- ' 
tance, it might have been difficult indeed to swear positively to her 
on meeting her elsewhere; but, knowing her as he did, with all a 
lover’s thoroughness of stored-up observation, he knew — and loathed 


SILVERMEAD. 


75 

the knowledge, that if ever certainty was certainty — Camilla Hard- 
ing was responsible for every act of the rash girl before him, for it 
was her very, very self. And he was right. It icas no other but 
her own, own self. 

She continued, with a deliberation which alone sufficed to prove 
to her hapless lover that her conscience upbraided her for the hidden 
deed she was about, to descend the stairs, at every step looking up 
and down and all about her. Once, when a huge white owl 
swooped across the garden, with its peculiar cry, Camilla, startled,, 
retraced her downward course, as though she would regain her 
room; but, a moment later, and after standing with one hand to her 
heart tor a brief space, she resumed her descent. At last she has 
come to within three steps of the ground, and there stops with the 
air of one who says, “ I’ll go no further, come what may.” 

This was apparently the preconcerted signal, or at all events 
Horace felt it so to be. The unfortunate boy’s heart now beat to 
that degree, and his temples throbbed so, that he believed in another 
moment something must break, give way, or burst, and he must 
die. To be sure, he little knew what man can bear and live! The 
sound in his bead can be likened only to the beating of a drum. 

Camilla had now stood motionles for quite a minute. 

It seemed ten to Horace. 

Suddenly, from out a clump of evergreens to the right, and still 
protected by their deep shade to within three paces fiom where she 
stood, the form of a young man rapidly emerged, and lightly 
bounding with the elasticity of youth and love to where Camilla 
stood — with eager outstretched arms — he clasped her passionately to 
his breast. 


CHAPTER XV. 

No sooner had Horace Brudenell, struck to the heart by what he 
saw, realized that his presence at Silvermead was certainly not re- 
quired than he proceeded to beat a retreat with far more speed if still 
willi almost as much pains to escape observation as he had displayed 
in his approach r for he felt sure that Cyril Acton’s companion, 
whoever he might be, and the countryman had stoutly maintained 
that the conspirators were two, still kept watch in the neighborhood, 
whilst his friend was happy in the arms of that Camilla Harding, 
whom, a moment before, Horace had not ceased to worship, even if 
he had begun to doubt her, and whose name must now for ever be 
synonymous in his mind with everything that is base, false and con- 
temptible. His journey home, however, was marked by no en- 
counter or incident of any sort. 

The chestnut with white stockings indeed gave vent to a new 
series of neighings as that intelligent and solitude-hating animal 
recognized a human tread not far off; and the equine challenge 
seemed a kind of mockery to the wanderer, as though the fates were 
taking speech in that dumb brute to deride him for his loss. Loss! 
Was it indeed a loss? 

When we discover in time that we have been utterly deceived by 
and in the person to whom we should have rashly committed our 
happiness for life ought we not rather to exult than grieve? Ought 


SILYERYTEAP. 


76 

not our feeling to be one more of blessed deliverance than of regret 
or repining? 

Horace asked himself all this in countless forms as he retraced 
his way, but always arrived at the same unconsoling conclusion. 

“ Since,” he told himself, “ she was worthless, better a thousand 
times that I should have found her out. Hence 1 rejoice infinitely 
in having obeyed the impulse which took me to Silvermead to- 
night. But am 1 any the less wretched on that account? 1 am not 
now mourning her as she is„ but as I believed her to be. It was a 
delusion, but what of that? Why, to my misfortune, has my god- 
dess proved of clay? Why, in a word, was it not ordained that this 
girl should turn out all 1 so fondly thought her, all that she so com- 
pletely seemed? 

“ Here is my great sorrow, there the blight which has fallen upon 
my soul, and which must for ever make both love and that sweet 
faith in woman from which love takes its being things that shall 
have no* part in my life. 1 have not changed and never should have 
done. 1 still love what I loved as wildly as ever — nay, more so from 
the sense of loss. Female honor, beauty, grace, charm, youth, all; 
but, for my curse, I can never care much for them now, because 
in her I can love them no more : and in others, the}’ will never ap- 
pear the same.” 

So with thoughts such as these did he pursue his weary way, 
thoroughly dispirited, yet hurrying ever, he knew not why, for he 
was in no "sort of haste to reach that bed where he felt sure no sleep 
awaited him. 

He strode rapidly along, unconsciously seeking, as it is so natural 
for everyone to do," repose in Bodily fatigue. 

1 suppose we are all more or less superstitious at certain times, 
and Horace took it now as a sure omen that his future existence was 
to be a sad one, that the sky had become so overcast as completely 
to shut out the moon which shone so brightly an hour ago to show 
him his dishonor, while a drizzling rain came steadily down, wet- 
ting him to the skin. On one point, however, he turned out to be 
quite wrong. As soon as he found himself safe back at Massing — 
if a man who has lost his love and got back his heart can be called 
safe — he poured himself out a good stiff glass of brandy and water, 
which the thoughtful old butler had left ready to his hand, gave 
himself such another fierce rub down as he had done after the little 
episode of the lake, and, tumbling into bed thoroughly exhausted, 
fell at once into one of those glorious unbroken sleeps "which, alas, 
are almost the monopoly of great youth, and never awoke until the 
somewhat late entrance — it was Sunday — of the servant on the fol- 
lowing morning with the customary “ ISIine o’clock, sir,” that be- 
ing about three hours later than the woriring day rising time. 

At Horace’s age all the great experiences of life as they occur arc 
accompanied by surprises. As he performed his toilet to day — 
wonderfully refreshed and invigorated as he was, almost in spite of 
himself, by his prolonged sleep — he could not help wondering that 
while his spirit deplored the lost Camilla beyond all expression, Jiis 
body should keep so sound and well under the blow. No pain in 
his head, no ache in his heart ! Had he been asked yesterday what 
would be the physical consequence of such a bereavement as had 


SILYERMEAD. 


tyiy 

i i 


now befallen him, he would have answered with the utmost prompt- 
ness and conviction, “ Total wreck.” 

And now the thunderstorm had actually fallen, and there was 
nothing of the kind; but, on the contrary, he beheld in the glass an 
absolutely rosy young man tying his cravat just as usual. The ap- 
parition, joined to the fact of his feeling so well in body, caused him 
no little disgust, and— yes, there could be no doubt of it— oh, horror! 
lie was positively hungry. 

Had lie then, he asked himself, been always deceived as to the 
manner of fellow he really was? Does he lack feeling, sensibility, 
real heart? Is he woven "of coarser and duller material than he has 
been wont to suppose? 

He goes down to breakfast nearly as much disgusted with himself 
as grieved at his midnight adventure. 

Ho sooner, however, does he behold Lady Susan, seated therewith 
the rest of the party, than a tremendous reaction takes place. 

There, then, is the woman he is now to love and cherish for ever. 
Why not? Her or another, it matters not which— they are all alike 
now. Why should he not oblige his uncle, and do what everybody 
says is the right thing? He is not going to turn monk, then why 
not marry? 

And at the thought, and even as he is shaking her ladyship’s 
hand, a sudden and dreadful tightness comes about his heart as 
though some enemy held it in his hand and was cruelly crushing it, 
and Horace tells himself, not without pride, “ 1 am a man, then, 
after all.” 

Yes, he preferred immeasurably to perform his allotted task in 
pain and anguish to going through with it in a numbed and callous 
torpor; so true it is that in our sorest griefs and troubles self-love is 
never killed within us. 

After church had been duly attended, Sir Howard summoned his 
nephew to the library, and, having carefully shut the door, delivered 
himself as follows: 

‘ ‘ Horace, our guests, the Caulfields, leave us to-morrow, and, as 
you are aware, proceeed to town in a very few days. When lately 
1 laid before you my views concerning a possible marriage between 
you and the daughter of my old friend and neighbor, you pleaded 
surprise, and asked for time to consult your feelings and think the 
matter over. 1 ' 

“ Yes, uncle, and 1 assure you I have done so very carefully.” 

“ 'Well, nephew, 1 suppose you can only have arrived at one re 
suit.” 

Although Sir Howard said this with much show of confidence, a 
careful observer could not fail to detect a certain amount of doubt 
and anxiety both in his manner and tone. 

These were destined, however, to be speedily set at rest. 

“ Yes, uncle. If you still think that Lady Susan and her parents 
.hold me worthy of so great an honor, 1 have quite made up my 
mind to propose to her.” 

This was explicit at any rate. No opposition on Horace’s part 
need any further be feared. Yet, now a new discontent arose in the 
baronet’s mind. Horace spoke like a dutiful nephew certainly, but 
yet not the least as a lover. 


78 


SILVERMEAD. 


Lady Susan was exactly the sort of statuesque woman whom Sir 
Howard himself admired, and this utter indifference to her charms 
in his young kinsman at once bred suspicion and uneasiness in the 
uncle’s mind. Pie did not know what to say next, and tliere was an 
awkward pause, Horace half suspecting the truth. 

At last Sir Howard asked : 

“ Do you not greatly admire Lady Susan?” 

“ 1 do, indeed; she is undeniably handsome.” 

“I am sure you ought to consider yourself a most fortunate 
young man.” 

“ And so I do, uncle. Have you any doubt on the subject?” 

“No, no — only neither at this moment, nor in what 1 have noticed 
when you were together, do I detect that — that empressement — those, 
in short — those symptoms which denote the lover.” 

”1 should think not indeed,” said Horace to himself. Then 
aloud — 

“ Uncle, in the first place we are not a demonstrative family, and 
then, to be quite frank with you, I doubt if I shall ever be,” — he 
nearly said “ again ” — ” what" is called ‘ in love!’ But surely that 
condition is hardly necessary to constitute a happy marriage. If 1 
do not yet exactly love Lady Susan, remember how very little I 
have seen of her, and take into consideration one great point in ray 
favor — 1 certainly love no one else.” 

This was balm to Sir Howard. The announcement not only de- 
lighted, it surprised him. There is the great satisfaction of dealing 
with those we know by experience to be utterly truthful. 

Had Horace loved elsewhere, Sir Howard would uot have held 
him hound to confess it, but he knew for certain that if such were 
the case, he would never have uttered the above denial. It made 
him quite genial. 

“ Well, well,” he said, “ with respect, admiration and sympathy, 
you will get on just as well, probably better than if you were wildly 
in love. Those solid qualities are all the more lasting when they 
form the very basis of an alliance.” 

“ 1 feel sure of it.” 

“ Many of the happiest unions 1 have ever known were between 
people who have never, 1 should say, been what is conventionally 
called ‘ in love.’ ” 

“ 1 daresay.” 

“ Oh, there can’t be a doubt upon the subject. And now, as ta 
the modus opera ndi and the — sinews of war. Y our principal expense 
you will find to be your stables;” and he went on to deal witn that 
subject in great detail; then spoke of the sort of rooms Horace was 
to occupy in London; the figure he was to make, and so forth, with 
a minuteness which would be wearisome to repeat. The upshot of 
it all was, that Horace was to have five hundred pounds in money, 
and Sir Howard undertook to pay all bills for him of every descrip- 
tion, an old fashioned plan to which the baronet had in his youth 
been accustomed and which was supposed to exercise a great hold 
and generally beneficial influence upon the young and inexperi- 
enced, when first launched upon the sea of fashionable life. 

Needless to say that Horace agreed with positive apathy to every- 
thing that was laid before h;'m, and would have accepted five shil- 


SILYERMEAD. 79 

lings with the same composure as he did the above very liberal sum, 
and then uttered the same quiet: “ Thank you, uncle.” 

Nothing of any import occurred ai Massing between the above in- 
terview and young Brudenell’s departure for town a few days later, 
where the good and constant Lady Susan Graye awaited him -with 
properly tempered impatience. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

Very different was the anxiety with which Camilla Harding 
looked forward to the promised visit of her Horace on the day which 
followed the above interview between uncle and nephew. She 
longed for it with a feverish joy which prevented her sitting still or 
settling down to any sort of occupation for three consecutive min- 
utes, from the time she rose from breakfast. And what wonder? 
The first meeting between lovers after that at which proposal and 
acceptance take place, is always an event expected by both, not only 
with impatience, but trepidation. How changed are the terms on 
which they now find themselves from those which have been main- 
tained throughout all previous encounters! Why, they feel them- 
selves in a sense already married. All uncertainty — the ruling ele- 
ment at each former meeting has for ever disappeared. All the old 
questions are decided and forgotten, and a legion of new ones have 
now to be discussed. She wonders what difference these altered 
circumstances have wrought in him, and he likewise wonders much 
about her. Both are most terribly anxious not to disappoint the 
other in these their new and untried characters. Suspense, under 
such data, grows too thrilling not to be painful, and so Lilia found 
it that day. Twice she changed her whole toilet; and thrice her 
style of coiffure. Not that she thought it much mattered now, but 
she found that to be constantly preparing foi her lover, as, poor 
thing, she still called him, was the only way to get through the time 
bearably. Talking to her gran’ma, in whose mind the impending 
encounter was also, of course, uppermost, the girl found too irrita- 
ting for her present mood. She had recourse to the piano more than 
once, but albeit usually a respectable performer— in great measure 
it must be owned, from the daily half-hour of scales so rigorously 
enforced by Lady Prendergast, and without which there can be no 
serious playing — she found that for once she could not execute even 
the simplest of her pieces, and the old lady at last obliged her to 
close the instrument. 

But, if waiting for three o’clock to come was an excitement more 
painful than pleasurable, what shall be said of the change for the 
worse as that hour, then the quarter, then the half hour struck, and 
no Horace appeared? 

It seems like a work of supererogation to explain the events of that 
eventful night more clearly than has already been done, and to say, 
in so many words, why ' sweet Lilia’s conscience, as regarded Hor- 
ace, was light and at rest. 

No one will of course have doubted her for a moment, nor fail to 
recognize in the seeming Romeo her erratic, erring, but still affec- 
tionate, and in face and above all, in figure, admirably preserved 
father. Neither were you ever puzzled by Cyril Acton’s connection 


SILYERMEAD. 


80 

with the affair, and without such a guide and go-between, that noc- 
turnal conspiracy of a man and his daughter — separated for more 
than a whole year— to meet for a few brief minutes, could certainly 
not have been successfully carried out, in a country and on prem- 
ises quite unknown to the chief actor in the scene. Acton had sim- 
ply ridden over to a certain signpost, as arranged between them by 
correspondence; had there met Cave Harding who had walked by 
the side of the chestnut hack, as far as the spot where Horace found 
the animal tied to a railing. Thence the friends had walked to- 
gether to within a stone’s throw of Camilla’s windows. As has been 
seen, Cave advanced alone to his child immediately on the stroke of 
twelve, while Acton, whom Camilla never even saw on that night, 
kept watch around, being equalty on the alert for any movement 
from within the house, nay, more so, than out of it. Thanks, how- 
ever, for Horace’s caution and previous acquaintance with the 
ground, he escaped Cyril’s vigilance. 

But, brief as the meeting of father and daughter had been, the 
latter had yet found time to acquaint him with her engagement, and 
to tell him how utterly she had given her heart away, to one who — 
she thought, she was sure, loved her very dearly; and all without 
having been able to wait to ask her dear papa’s consent and ap- 
proval. Blessing she did not talk about. Not that she was in the 
least conscious of the omission, but there was an incongruity be- 
tween Cave Harding and blessings which no human being, who 
knew him ever so little, would dream of breaking throe gb. Like 
Lady Prendergast, on being told there was a love affair in Ike wind, 
Mr. Harding had expected another name — that of Cyril Acton — to 
be breathed in his ear, and, like her, he had blurted out his surprise 
that it was not so. However there is as much tone, as regards ex- 
pression, in wiiispers as in ordinary speaking, and that in which 
Lilia said, 

“ Oh dear no, papa; Cyril Acton is a true and good friend of mine, 
but he is not a bit like Horace Brudenell,” had an inflection which 
conveyed that no number of princes, kings or cardinals rolled into 
one could ever rival the, to Mr. Harding, unknown quantity of our 
hero’s perfections. Of course when this fond parent heard briefly 
how very well the young man stood with Sir Howard, he w r as doubly 
glad to sanction the engagement. Not but what it is very doubtful 
whether he would have opposed it in any case. He was in the first 
place an easy-going, happy-go-lucky sort of man; and then, as he 
had never done anything but spoil Lilia, and had never said “ no ” 
to her in his life, he was hardly likely to begin now. It is really 
wonderful how many parents there are — and these chiefly fathers — 
w T hose whole idea of duty toward their offspring would seem to con- 
sist in being good playmates to them! Such men, it is true, often 
acquire one chief object of their aim, if aim they. have. They get 
w T ell loved. However, let them know that it is not without a dash 
of contempt from these very children whom they have never- 
thwarted, and who acquire a ‘curious habit of adding two ominous 
w'ords (o the terms of affection in which they may speak to others of 
their father; and these are “ poor dear.” 

Well, the nocturnal interview had ended by their both agreeing 
that it was very delightful, but very wrong and foolish, and must 


SILYERMEAD. 


81 


on no account be risked again. Acton was to contrive an occasional 
correspondence until such time as this model parent’s “ little specu- 
lations ” should bear sufficient fruit to enable him and his daughter 
to “ snap their fingers at the old cal,” as Cave irreverently put it, 
at which remark Lilia, 1 am afraid, laughed. 

Thus it will be seen that the ill-fated girl could have no suspicion 
that she had incurred her lover’s displeasure, and that thought, at 
least, was not added to her other miseries on this dreadful Monday 
afternoon. Of course such an idea never entered her head ; how 
should it? Once, indeed, she asked herself whether anything in the 
long letter she had written to Horace could by chance have been 
misunderstood and offended him, but she very sensibly scouted the 
idea, telling herself that if such, however improbably, were the case, 
Horace would at least have written, telling her he wished it unsaid 
or explained away before they met again. 

For the hundredth time Camilla strays to one of the windows 
which look on the approach and, pressing her forehead against the 
rain-beaten pane to cool it, strains her eyes through the wet and 
foggy distance in vain. That the weather should stop him is a sup- 
position which only enters her brain to be well laughed at— in so 
far, that is, as the poor child can laugh at anything just now. Then 
a thousand fears invade her already half-widowed soul. Ilis horse 
lias shied at one of the flashes of lightning of which there have been 
several, and thrown him as he cantered carelessly along, his thoughts 
all of her. He rides such young and half -broken horses? Oh! if 
she dared, how she would fly to the stables and dispatch a groom in 
search. 

Perchance, even now, her Horace lies senseless, and far from all 
help, against some Kerbstone! 

Or he is ill, at home at Massing. She is willing, eager, to think 
almost anything of her lover but that he is neglecting her. 

Ha! what is that looming through the mist and rain? At last! 
Yes ; surely a man on horseback. It is he! • 

How foolish she has been to cause herself all this anguish, and to 
wr0 ng her love by doubting him, all for one little hour’s delay— a 
slight^ unpunctuality which might be accounted for in a hundred 
ways. 

See, the cavalier draws nearer, but— oh! surely that sorry steed 
is not Horace’s, nor can that podgy figure, with all allowance for 
magnification by fog, or the weather and consequent wraps, be his. 
Horror ! 

It is Dr. Me Finn. To be sure, he was to come to-day to see Lady 
Prendergast. The revulsion of feeling is too much for Lilia, and 
she gives up all hope now, as, bursting into tears, she rushes off to 
her ov r n room. 

There is something particularly hateful to us in incurring the pity of 
those we dislike; and the grandmother’s well-meant condolence, and 
little scraps of comfort, when Lilia and she met for dinner, were 
dreadfully galling to the girl. Not that she had the bad taste to 
allow this to 'appear. Whether Lilia wanted her love or not— and 
she was now entering on a period, did she but know it, when she 
could ill afford to dispense with affection of any kind— she was ever 
aware of the depth of Lady Prendergast’s feeling of utter devotion 


SILVERMEAD. 


82 

to her; and to which she might have responded, very warmly, but 
for her grandmother's persistent, albeit conscientious attitude toward 
her father, of which a good deal has been said in the earlier portion 
of this history. 

Oh, that she would only leave me alone!’* was her constantly 
repeated mute ejaculation, throughout the evening. 

Still, she could not but admit to herself both the kindness of her 
aged relative’s intentions, and the gentle and sympathetic manner in 
which it was carried out. 

“No doubt,’’ said the old lady, as they returned to the drawing- 
room, “ to-morrow’s post will explain the mystery.” 

“ I cannot think it, gran’ma.” 

“ But yes, 1 say, it must. Remember, that in any case, we are 
dealing with gentlemen — people of our own world. They are bound 
by the laws of that world. A man cannot break such an appoint- 
ment as that of to-day, and make no sign. Believe me, were you a 
dispassionate looker on, you would be the first to see that such a 
supposition is childish.” 

“ But, gran’ma, ihe manque , or whatever I am to call it, has al- 
ready taken place. Massing is but a few miles off. They are not 
paupers. They have grooms and horses. "Within an hour of Mr. 
Brudenell’s failure to "make his appearance, according to your very 
pleasant theory of everybody being bound by the code of good man- 
ners, some explanation should have reached us.” 

“Very plausible, my love, I admit; but, mark what I say, to- 
morrow’s post will bring news.” 

Lilia breathed to herself a fervent “ God grant it!” then aloud — 

“ Gran’ma, I have always had — all my life ” — and the girl spoke 
solemnly of that vast space of time, with the comic gravity usual to 
the young, “ very strong presentiments. 1 tell you something very 
bad, that we do not know of, has happened.” 

And4t was a proof how terribly unhinged both in body and mind 
our poor little Camilla was that night, that she hereupon nestled up 
close to the old lady and wept upon her bosom quite contentedly, 
even forgetting in her utter prostration all her ancient grudges against 
her; remembering onty — for there was a fund of generosity in Lilia, 
after all, and the really generous are always grateful — that Lady 
Piendergast was doing the best she could for her now. 

Perhaps, for the intricacies of human nature will admit of the 
supposition, it was easier for the girl to melt toward her grand- 
mother from the fact that she had so triumphantly carried out under 
her roof that awful clandestine meeting with her proscribed father, 
only two nights before. 

Anyhow, it befell that out of Lilia’s new trouble was inaugurated 
that Monday night a more harmonious footing than had ever before 
been maintained between these two willful ones, and that the elder 
did not fail in her prayers — which were ever long and old-fashioned 
— to thank heaven that what she deemed the first earthworks of the 
fortress of her granddaughter's heart were at last carried, after an 
unprecedently long and persistent siege. Lilia, too, prayed, but her 
orisons were not those of thanksgiving. Rather did she assail heaven 
with entreaties which were almost like commands. 


SILVERMEAD. 


83 

Grant me him, grant me him,” she gasped, “ or if not take my 
life, for if Thou dost not, I doubt but 1 will end it!” 

But the poor maiden that night was not in her wonted devout 
mind. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Tuesday morning broke somber and rainy like the day before. 
As Lady Prendergast had foretold, the post-bag did contain a letter 
from Massing, but it was not from the right person, being merely a 
line from Sir Howard, saying that he should be passing the Silver- 
mead lodge gates on his way to a political meeting at the other side 
of the county, and would make bold to stop and ask for luncheon 
on his way. 

The entente cordiale, which had begun the day previous between 
the old and young ladies, was somewhat strengthened by this very 
commonplace epistle, for they turned and twisted the baronet’s visit 
into every imaginable shape and meaning, as they chatted away the 
morning together, in quite harmonious confidence. Women beat 
men all to nothing in utterly forgetting their little differences, when 
it suits them. 

Camilla’s face began to resume much of its wonted brightness as. 
the luncheon hour drew near. No doubt Sir Howard’s announced 
descent upon them, albeit that he said he should be passing, was 
susceptible of a very favorable interpretation indeed. What more 
natural than that, on Horace telling him of the course he had taken, 
his uncle should have given a qualified consent, stipulating that no 
further step be taken until he had himself seen Lady Prendergast, 
and made his own conditions; and in such a case Sir Howard would 
very likely have undertaken to verbally excuse Horace for not hav- 
ing kept his appointment of the previous day. 

This was the solution in which the grandmother really believed, 
and she explained it to Camilla in kind and sympathetic words, 
which a few hours later on she wished, with all her soul, that she 
had never spoken. 

If the operation has to be attempted of cutting a young man out 
of a girl’s heart, it should be done quickly, neatly, and at one time. 

Fate is never so cruel as when she deludes with bright gleams of 
hope, which, vanishing a moment afterward, leaves our sky more 
pitchy dark than before. 

At length the waiting was over; the servant threw open the door 
and announced the visitor. 

Camilla had obtained that the blinds should be a good half-way 
down, and she rose to receive Sir Howard with what bravery she 
could muster, and 1 have said she was no coward. Not but what 
all great lovers must in a sense turn cowards when there is question 
of losing their beloved. 

. There was so much in Sir Howard Brudenell that was invariable, 
that it was hard to read either his mood or errand in his manner or 
appearance. 

Always courteous, reposeful, dignified and self-possessed, circum- 
stance had little scope for telling tales about him; yet he had not. 
been five seconds in that darkened room ere the keen eyes and Keener 


84 


SILVERMEAP. 


perception of the young girl had read one word in his demeanor 
which turned her very marrow icy cold, well-nigh making her sink 
down where she stood, and that word was calamity. 

She read at once that he had no errand. 1 cannot pretend to tell 
you how, and I am quite sure she could still less have explained it, 
and yet the conviction was there, almost to the exclusion of any 
possibility that she might be mistaken. 

The visitor, on his side, although far from the sharpest of men, 
was sufficiently a man of the world to see at a glance that his com- 
ing was an event for the two women, and lie had but to consult for 
an instant poor Camilla’s pale face to read aright the entire situation, 
so far, at least, as its main bearings were concerned. He saw that 
she loved Horace — for all that Miss Laffinch had told him was 
amply present to his mind — and that the girl awaited, as though it 
were a fiat of life or death, the words that should fall from his lips. 
His first feeling was one of hearty regret at having come. 

Unless we are naturally cruel by preference, which 1 trust few of 
us are, it is terribly painful to find ourselves in any such position. 
To feel that we are regarded as a small providence, and then have 
to blight instead of bless. 

Sir Howard’s visit was probably not so completely a matter of 
chance as he would have it appear. True, he owed Lady Prender- 
gast a visit and was not at all loath to break a dreary drive of over a 
dozen miles through a soaking couni ry by stopping at Silvermead 
for a snack and a chat. But, as we have seen, the tales he had been 
told about his nephew and this young girl had exercised his spirit in 
no common degree, and now that Horace had acceded to all his 
wishes, never even hinting at any attachment for Camilla, and had 

f one off to London for the express purpose of pushing his suit with 
iady Susan, there was no doubt some feeling of curiosity at work in 
the uncle which prompted him to come and judge for himself of the 
state of affairs. 

As for the old lady — time had somewhat dulled her mortal vision, 
"and, to a less extent, her general perceptions. She was, therefore, 
at the moment the least disturbed of the three. It was in her most 
ordinary manner and tone that she said, after hands had been 
shaken : 

“This is a kindly thought of yours, Sir Howard, to take pity 
upon two lone women. Come and sit down near the fire.” 

“1 assure you, Lady Prendergast, the gain is mine. Besides, I 
am a lone man now. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed!” 

“ Yes; my nephew has gone off to his first London season.” 

“ Already!” said the dowager, surprised. 

“ Yes; he went yesterday. Well, there is a good deal for him to 
do, one way and another.” 

“ Of course it is the right thing for young men to see the world ” 
“ Oh, not merely that. There are a crowd of things great and 
small. 1 have just put him into the yeomanry, and there is his uni- 
form to get. Then Lord Cauldfield is to present him— a horse or 
two to buy — and — ” 

“ Then we shall see him no more for the present?” put in Camilla, 
who had not yet spoken. 


SILVERMEAD. 


85 

“Why, no; not unless } r ou are going up to adorn some of the 
London balls, Miss Harding; he will be at them all, 1 promise 
you.” 

“ O, 1 am not going up, but if I did,” she added, with a proud 
smile and a secret effort, “ 1 do not know that 1 should dance with 
Mr. Brudenell.” 

“ Indeed! Is he so bad a performer?” 

“ O, dear no, a very good waltzer, but—” 

“ Why then?” ^ 

“ Well, Sir Howard, he— he asked particularly if 1— if we should 
be at home yesterday, Monday; 1 said we should be very happy to 
see him, and — he never came. ” 

During this speech Camilla kept up an attempt at laughter and a 
bantering tone. 

“ Really!” exclaimed Sir Howard, with unfeigned surprise, “ I 
was not aware—” 

“ Now was not that detestabty rude for a new acquaintance?” 
pursued the poor child, more lightly still. 

“ Rudeness is not one of Horace’s faults,” said the baronet, half 
to himself, and lapsing suddenly into a brown study. “1 am as 
puzzled as you are — hum—” 

There was an awkward silence. 

Presently the grandmother said : 

“ Perhaps in the hurry of his departure for town he had no time 
to call here. He will possibly write a line. ” 

“ O,” said Camilla, seeing that Sir Howard was really in the dark, 
not pretending to be, “ pray do not attach the smallest importance 
to so slight a thing — 1 — 1 only mentioned it — 1 — 1 can’t realty say 
why.” 

“ O, but I do, and the greatest importance. My dear Miss Hard- 
ing, once make light of the laws of social intercourse, of good breed- 
ing, and where are we? A. pebble will in the beginning turn a 
stream. Manners, ,my dear young lady, are one of the strongest bul- 
warks we have against Radicalism, Socialism, and the secret 
societies.” 

But it 'was not in its political aspect that the question was interest- 
ing to Camilla. Sir Howard, too, as we know, had quite other rea- 
sons for wishing to fathom this little mystery; albeit that. his horror 
at any breach of etiquette, especially in a Brudenell, was very real 
indeed. 

The topic continued to absorb him, and during a short conversa- 
tion which followed between himself and his hostess, he was so ab- 
sent that he twice had to ask her to repeat some remark. This was 
a small thing, the talk being only of a new gardener and some 
flowers that cbeered the rooms, but to Camilla it was a feather which 
showed how the wind blew. 

The anxious uncle was meanwhile asking himself why Horace 
had formally announced a visit to Silvermead; why, having done 
so, he failed to keep the appointment; why, failing, he had sent 
neither message nor note of excuse? 

Sir Howard remembered now having mentioned to him that he in- 
tended lunching there to-day— and above all, why had the nephew 
never uttered to his kind relative one syllable of the whole affair? 


SILVERMEAD. 


86 

The announcement of luncheon created a diversion just now, wel- 
come to all. It has often struck me that if eating happened not to 
be one of the necessaries of life — if we drew, for instance, our only 
nourishment from one brief daily draught from some essential 
fountain, how different, and to most people how tiresome life would 
be. The thing would have its advantages, no doubt. There w T ould 
be no gluttony, no drunkenness, and, above all, no cooks to drive 
us mad by their conduct or incapacity — by their involuntary attempts 
to poison us. But, on the other hand, how should we get on with- 
out those utterances which are made directly or indirectly under the 
beneficent influence of food? At meals it is our glorious privilege 
to talk, whether w T e have anything to say or not; and, this being- 
granted, we certainly drift into conversation as useful and pregnant 
of result — nay more so— than if they had been begun with a sense 
of responsibility, and some definite object in view. 

The mid-day repast at Silvermcad on this special occasion can 
hardly be considered in a pleasant or convivial light, but its discus- 
sion was better than sitting in the drawing-room. Whatever slight 
disturbances may be going on in Sir Howard’s mind, they do not 
seem to spoil his appetite, although he notices that neither of the 
ladies eat with any zest, and he is sorry for them, and still more so 
in that he is afraid he knows the cause. There is not much to be 
done under the circumstances, but that little he does. He contrives 
to be bright without being jocular. He tells them all the news out 
of the morning papers he has skimmed as he drove along, and which 
he rightly guesses that for once, at least, these two lonely ones have 
not yet cared to read. This brings them to politics, the increasing 
troubles in Ireland, the much talked of new rules of procedure, the 
dreaded cloture. 

“ And when, Sir Howard, do you hope to oppose with your 
valuable voice this insane tide of so-called reform?” asked Lady 
Piendergast. 

“ The moment 1 can get a constituency sensibly enough to return 
me,” said the ex-M.P., with a smile. 

“ The Cauldfields are already in towm, I believe?” 

“ O, by-the-bj'e, ” broke in Camilla, “ we heard by chance yester- 
day— it was the gardener told my maid — that Lady Caulfield had 
been nearly drowmed at Massing/ How was it? And had she quite 
recovered when she left you?” 

Sir Howard could not help coloring up at the Cauldfield name. 
He wondered whether Camilla regarded the noble Susan as her rival, 
and if so, whether this interest in the marchioness was really a bid 
for information. 

“ Nearly drowned! O, dear no,” he replied, and proceeded to 
give a very toned down version of the whole affair; suppressing 
Horace’s share in the little episode altogether. Camilla, who had 
looked to this visit from her lover’s uncle as on the proverbial straw 
to drowners, began to feel that he was going away, out of their 
house, and soon perhaps out of the county, without leaving her so 
much as one word of comfort, or of hope; nay more, she saw in his 
reticence— or was it his ignorance? — the confirmation of her v T orst 
fears. She now began quite to dread his leave-taking, and to plot 
and plan any little subterfuge which might detain him even for a 


SILYEKMEAD. 


87 

few moments longer. With a f contradiction or rather an inconsist- 
ency so often met with in the unhappy, Camilla had recourse to 
these expedients, although she did not in the least believe there was 
any good to be obtained from them. Perhaps she wanted merely to 
gain time to reflect whether there was anything to be done with Sir 
Howard which she would regret having left undone when he was 
no longer within reach. She had even the wildest ideas as the mo- 
ment of his departure approached. 

She thought of asking to be alone with him, with this formal man 
who was really antipathetic to her, or if she liked him at all, only 
with a kind of reflected liking, because he was Horace’s uncle — of 
telling him everything, bursting into tears — not designedly, but she 
knew' that would happen in spite of her — throwing herself upon such 
heart as he might chance to possess, and imploring him to do what 
in him lay to save her from losing her all— his nephew. For had 
she not her rights? 

After what young Brudenell had said to her, he was bound to 
marry her if she chose, and what if she did choose, in spite of his 
inconstancy? 

Extraordinary as such a course may seem, I really believe that 
Camilla w T ould have taken it but for two reasons. First, she felt 
sure that in whatever frame of mind Horace might now be, such a 
procedure would make him very angry indeed, perhaps to the point 
of never forgiving her; and secondly, she had always that other, that 
last resort at command, of herself writing to her faithless one. 

And so it happened that about half-an-hour after they quitted the 
dining-room, and when the conservatory had been duly inspected 
and the usual little common places of leave-taking all spoken by 
these three goodly personages, Sir Howard’s well-appointed brough- 
am and pair came round, and bore him away externally serene; 
but, all the same, with a strong suspicion on his mind that he was 
leaving two quite son owing hearts behind him, a circumstance at 
which he was tlte more pained because he saw no cure for their 
suffering, save in events which would utterly defeat his own am- 
bition and all his long- cherished desires. Sir Howard was not a man 
— good churchman though he was— to love his neighbors better than 
himself , and as to that, why should any of us care, in this respect, 
to go beyond the Gospel, when so few, so very few, ever think of 
coming up to its precept? 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The two women stood and watched the retreating carriage well 
out of sight before either of them spoke; naturally there was noth- 
ing very cheerful for either of them to say. Perhaps also— for who 
shall measure the unreasonableness of our natures — they each 
thought it possible that that dark, even black-blue brougham might 
yet be stopped, turn round, and Sir Howard come back to say some- 
thing alike decisive and cheering. Needless to say, no such contin- 
gency occurred. Presently the old lady glided her hand within her 
grandchild’s with more gentleness than of wont belonged to her, 
and whispered: 

“Well?” 


88 


SILYEEMEAD. 


“ He evidently knows nothing.” 

“ Are you sure?” 

“ Quite, gran’ma! 1 am not very old or very wise. .and although 
no doubt many men are great actors, 1 feel sure it is not a talent 
which belongs to Sir Howard.” 

“ Then?” 

“ Then he could not have put on that look of surprise when 1 told 
him that Hor — Mr. Brudenell promised to call here to-day. ’ ’ 

“ Well, darling, if his uncle had nothing to do with his not com- 
ing, how do you account for the young man’s inexplicable.conduct?” 
and Lady Prendergast’s tone grew shrill with anger against him of 
whom she was speaking. 

“ 1 do not account for it at all,” said the girl, her eyes still strain^ 
ing out into the distance. “ Perhaps he will write still.” 

“ But 1 am supposing lie does not.” 

“ Then-then, gran’ma, 1 shall be in a maze, more even than 1 
am now. You see every supposition seems so utterly unlikely. If, 
for instance, he regrets his words — if he is even determined to free 
himself in some way, and at any sacrifice, still we are met by the 
fact that Mr. Brudenell is at least a man of our world, as you 
pointed out yesterday. He would say or write or send word, some- 
thing — anything — ’ ’ 

“ Yes, it is most extraordinary,” said the old lady, kissing her. 

“ We at least know that there has been no illness — no accident,” 
pursued the poor child. 

“ Yes— if that is any comfort.” 

“ Well, it is to me,” said Camilla, her true love cropping up in 
the midst of her wretchedness. 

After a moment or two she went on. 

“ One naturally thinks of the wildest possibilities, when every- 
thing is so unlikely. He — ” and here she laughed, oh, such a sad 
little laugh — “ he can’t have gone out of his mind, can he, gran’ma, 
or Sir Howard would have told us?” 

But this was of course only one of those feeble attempts at a joke, 
so dear to the very miserable. 

Then these two women went and sat over the fire by mutual con- 
sent. The day was not very cold, though wet and cheerless, but 
they were in one of those moods that makes one chilly, and alad, 
moreover, of such comfort as a bristling, rampant, lambent English. • 
fire can confer. 

And then they talked on in the- same desultory way, and ever of 
the same subject; and so the dull day wore along; that night Camilla 
slept but little, and the morning mail brought nothing more interest- 
ing than bills and circulars. 

Nor tl^e morning after that, nor any morning, noon, or eve! 

And the girl grew thin and ill, and her grandmother became 
utterly wretched and alarmed about her, so that she even regretted 
Camilla’s old spirit of willful sauciness, and obstinate resistance to 
herself. Anything were better than this apathy — so like settled de- 
spair, the old lady thought ; nor did she exaggerate the girl’s condi- 
tion. The worst of it was Lady P^endergast, though always racking 
her brain on the subject, could discover nothing to be done. She 


SILVEKMEAD. 89 

even proposed taking Camilla up to town, just for a change, she 
said, but the latter gratefully declined. 

'When three weeks had thus dragged on the spirit of self-preserva- 
tion spoke at last in our little heroine, and she resolved, after in- 
finite deliberation, to write a long letter to Horace. 

Should she show it to her gran’ma? Surely, she told herself, the 
old woman deserved it. On the other hand, she felt she would never 
achieve the same letter — the one she wanted to write — if mortal eyes * 
other than Horace’s were destined to see it. No, she would dispatch 
her letter first, and affectionately explain the truth to her grand- 
mother afterward. Besides, having once determined to take this 
very doubtful, yet decided step, she resolved that nothing should 
stop her, and therefore would not put herself in the untoward posi- 
tion of finding fierself bound to disobey, should Lady Prendergast 
happen to take the course of forbidding her to write to her late 
lover at all. 

“ It is wonderful, when a puzzle has but one solution, no matter 
how difficult, how likely we are either to solve it, or to come very 
near doing so, provided always that we devote time and earnestness 
enough to that end. It will be seen by the following that Camilla — 
who amply complied with these conditions, had got so far as to re- 
gard as at all events dimly possible, some such circumstances as 
were the real cause, could she but have known it, of all that had oc- 
curred. 

“ My dear Horace, — 1 am perhaps calling you so for the last 
time, but yet 1 cannot begin my letter in any other way, because, 
until I know more, I will not condemn you. 

“It is no use my telling you how you have behaved to me, be- 
cause you know better than I "do how badly that is. 1 have almost 
worn my brain out with trying to account for it, or explain it in any 
conceivable way. If you were a reckless nature, with no self-re- 
spect, or a weak intellect, it would be different; but for an honor- 
able, kind man, and so intelligent as you are, to suddenly break 
through every rule and law of civilized life, and to a girl that you 
said you loved, there must be some strong reason, and an explana- 
tion every one would understand, if you made it, if even all might 
not approve of it. 

“ Oh, 1 have thought and thought all day long, every day— in 
fact 1 never think of anything else, and then at night too— 1 do not 
sleep much now — and do you know what at last I have come to be- 
lieve? Otherwise 1 would not write, you may be quite sure: be- 
sides, it would be no use. If you were utterly bad or indifferent to 
what 1 still think you, there would be no use— would there?— in ap- 
pealing to you, or taking any step whatever. 

“ Well, 1 now feel sure that one of two things must have hap- 
pened. Either you have written to me and I have not had tiie let- 
ter, or else you have had your mind poisoned against me by false 
appearances. Now nobody here would interfere with a letter for 
me, and as to the post failing, 1 have always heard that occurs so 
seldom as to be scarcely worth considering. So there remains the 
alternative. By dint of pondering and pondering, and, indeed, 
praying hard for light, I have come to ask myself whether some- 


90 


SILVERMEAD. 


thing 1 did between our last meeting and the Monday when you 
were to have come here, is not the key to the whole trouble. My 
grandmother will not allow me to see my father, and it is a point in 
which 1 think 1 have a right to deceive and disobey her. It would 
take too long, 1 mean too much space, to explain fully here, but her 
grievances against him are a very old affaii, and I must say, in jus- 
tice to her, that perhaps there have been faults on both sides. 

“ 1 have always loved my father more than I think even other 
girls love theirs. He has had great misfortunes. 1 was going to 
tell you all about this if you had come that afternoon, and it was 
months and months since we had met. In short we arranged and 
carried out a meeting at midnight on the Saturday after I saw you. 
It was here close to the house. Mr. Acton helped us. We were 
together for nearly half an hour and no one found us out. At least 
1 ought to say not that I know of. 

“ Now I come to the point. Although 1 do not know that I have 
an enemy in the world, and 1 do not suppose any one would be so 
wicked — it would be indeed a most wicked act — as to invent any- 
thing infamous to tell you about me in order to part us, yet it is a 
very different thing, and too common to cause much surprise, for 
even pretty average Christians to thoughtlessly repeat what they 
hear. 

“ Now, supposing my meeting with my father was discovered by 
some prying servants, gamekeeper or other person, and that it thus 
from mouth to mouth reached your ear, 1 saj' 1 can imagine that 
you, after taking due measures for ascertaining that the information 
was trustworthy, should say to yourself— never dreaming that it was 
my own father that 1 had met : ‘ Here is a girl who is utterly bad. 
No courtesy or consideration is due to her. She knows why she is 
unworthy, and it is quite superfluous that I should trouble to give 
her any explanation.’ The more 1 dwell on the aspect of our posi- 
tion, tiie more 1 think it must be, in the main, the true one. Oh, my 
dear Horace, God grant that I am right, for 1 can bear my present 
anguish no more, indeed 1 cannot. 

“ You cannot form the least idea of what 1 suffer! I do not think 
men ever suffer in the same sort of way. You see I talk to you 
quite as if you had done nothing to forfeit my love and esteem. Kor 
have you, 1 am sure. O, 1 do believe so deeply in those inward 
promptings we have, especially after prayer. I fancy they are lights 
from heaven. It may appear strange that 1 can be so utterly un- 
happy and wretched about a man I have seen so little of as your- 
self, but oh, Horace, 1 never saw anyone before that 1 cared the" least 
about in the way of love. Besides, you show r ed what you felt for me 
from the first, 1 thought, and so 1 began giving myself up to love 
you before you spoke to me at the ball. So when 1 then answered 
that 1 too cared for you, it must have appeared, oh, such old news. 
Did it not? 

“ Dear me, 1 have written sheets and sheets, yet 1 am so sorry to 
leave off. This is the only thing 1 have enjoyed doing since that 
Monday you did not come. The thought strikes me that you will 
have this to-morrow; that you will write at once, and that the next 
morning 1 may be— for all my present misery — by many, many de- 
grees the happiest girl in England- or out of it. 


SILYERMEAD. 


91 


41 1 am smiling, laughing, Horace, at the bare thought. Good-by. 
“ Ever till death, voiu* own 

“Camilla.” 


The all important missive written, the next step on which she held 
a council with herself was, how she should send it. She did not 
know Horace's town address. Far was she from conceiving Sir 
Howard capable of opening a letter not addressed to him ; but if- she 
directed it to his care, there was not only the chance of his opening 
it by mistake and half reading it before he knew what he was 
about, but she felt him to be an enemy to her cause, and without 
exactly putting these reasons into form, Camilla dimly foresaw 
various possible objections to this plan, and, moreover, instinctively 
recoiled from it. 

“ No, it should not go to Massing.” 

Even had she known the young recalcitrant’s abode in London, 
or his club, it would never do to place a letter, addressed to him in 
her own hand, into the Silvermead letter-box. The butler might 
notice it, and tell the lady’s-maid, who might — who would tell my 
lady, and — no, that was not to be thought of. 

Camilla had written in the “ dead waste and middle of the night ” 
and in the seclusion of her own room. She had therefore all the 
next day till post time to decide the above knotty point. What she 
deemed a lucky chance favored her. 

There had been, sometime before, much talk of getting from 
London a stained glass window for the conservatory, to mitigate the 
glare on the south side. Lady Prendergast had spoken one day to 
Cyril Acton about it. Glass chanced to be rather a hobby of his, 
and he recommended a certain firm in Lambeth for executing the 
work. Subsequently two or three notes had passed between them 
relative to this, and now, just as Camilla was wondering how to get 
out of her difficulty, the old lady said : 

“ Oh, by-the-bye, dearest, here are. the measurements of the sash; 
I wish you would write to good kind Mr. Acton for me, and inclose 
them. Say 1 like the design particularly.” 

Here then was her opportunity. Acton, who moved in the same 
society, had probably met Horace several times already since she 
had introduced them to one another. At any rate, even if Acton did 
not know the latter’s address, nothing could be easier than for him 
to find it out. Needless to say she at once accepted the old lady’s 
commission, and having fulfilled it, added: 

“ I have to bother you also with a favor I want you to do for me. 
If you do not happen to know Mr. Horace Brudenell’s address, will 
you kindly find it out and send him the inclosed letter from me? I 
shall perhaps some day tell you more upon the subject, but cannot 
do so at present. Neither can I explain to you now why you are to 
make no allusion to this matter in any letter you may wwite to my 
grandmother, or indeed in any way to any person. 

“ Your old friend, 

“ Camilla Harding.” 

We are nearly all of us moie or less sanguine when we are young, 
and a bold and would-be decisive measure strenuously carried out is 


92 


SILYERMEAD. 


always a great fillip to hopefulness. Before writing that moment- 
ous letter to her lover, we have seen Camilla settle down into a state 
of almost blank despair. It was evident to her that if she remained 
passive nothing would happen, as she nai'vely put it, and she came 
to the conclusion that any issue was less bearable than that. Now 
that she had acted, there \yas always the chance— likely or not— of 
her letter tearing some evil veil from her beloved’s eyes and bring- 
ing this apparently bewitched matter right again. The reaction was 
wonderful. W ith the buoyancy of her seventeen summers the eu- 
daimometer of her heart sprung up almost to exultation point. 
This girl had naturally a great talent for happiness. 

Camilla told herself that if she could only delude herself into a 
bright mood for a few days, it would be an immense gain to her in 
mind, health and looks, the importance of which could not be ex- 
aggerated, seeing the terrible probability there still was of all these 
commodities being soon strained and taxed to the utmost — and for 
an indefinite period of time. 

It was wonderful how the valiant little thing struggled to be gay, 
and to appear so. She did the latter so well and persistently, that 
often and often the stimulated feeling became a real one, as so con- 
stantly happens in the experience of us all. 

Lady Prendergast’s surprise and joy at what she called this bound 
which Camilla had taken, as it were, from the valleys of gloom to 
the almost frolicsome heights of sunlit brightness, were, it need 
hardly be said, considerable. She feared, however, to question her 
as to the cause. Not having sufficient faith in the solid bases of this 
change, she feared lest the very analysis should dispel it. The wise 
okl woman had learnt nearly seventy years ago the result of finger- 
ing a soap bubble. One day, however, she ventured to say: 

“Camilla, my own, you look lovely to-day, I am so delighted, 
you have got back your roses. 7 ’ 

“ Oh, gran’ma,” the girl replied, gayly tripping to the looking- 
glass to verify the compliment, ‘ ‘ 1 ought to look happy, I feel light- 
hearted as a bird.” 

“ And why, may one ask?” 

“ Yes — 1 have had a bright dream.” 

“ A dream?” 

“ Yes, dearest, and as 1 believe in it, for a wonder, it is as good 
as a reality,” and she run down the lawn hatless, perhaps to escape 
any closer interrogation. 

“ Yes,” mused the aged lady, as she gazed upon her, “ she is a 
strange girl. Her wretched father’s elasticity and mad spirits, al- 
ways ready to break forth on the smallest occasion, and yet all her 
poor darling mother’s depth of character, her feelings, honor, pride. 
What a dazzling butterfly she looks disporting there among the 
sunbeams and the flowers! Ah, God grant that the bloom be not 
cruelly torn from her wings! Or, if for some wise purpose this bit- 
terness must come, then grant that 1 be not by to see it!” 

And Lady Prendcrgast put her handkerchief to her tearful eyes 
and hurried away. 


SILVEKMEAD, 


93 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Cybil Acton inhabits a comfortable set of rooms in South Aud- 
ley Street. He is sitting there one May morning in a somewhat rest- 
less mood, trying to read the paper after a nine o’clock breakfast — a 
meal which hd,d consisted of a couple of eggs, some tea and toast. 
If this young man has his cherished vices, gluttony and insobriety 
are not among them. 

No, Cyril Acton is ambitious — fiercely, unscrupulously so, and he 
is seldom ever tempted by such things as may clog his darling 
ends. Young as he is, he has already grown furious with fate, and 
regards all men and women as mere tools, so many chessmen to his 
hand. Oh, but he is clever — knows it — glories in it — and the cleverest 
thing he does is successfully to conceal his aims, and harder still, 
his want of heart, from the great bulk of those with whom he asso- 
ciates. Physically almost a coward, save when his keen interests 
goad him to some fitful mastery over his nerves, he morally knows 
no fear of things either earthly or unseen. 

His position is no doubt somewhat cruel, and enough to sour a 
far better nature; indeed the case is a singularly hard and strange, 
though not an unparalleled, one. 

His father, now Viscount Hammersley, when traveling as a 
youth of three-and-twenty in the United States, chanced to meet a 
young Irish lady lately arrived there, and who, like most of her na- 
tion,, was a Roman Catholic. The girl was of good family, and 
Cyril’s father had at that time not the faintest apparent chance of 
inheriting the family wealth and honors. The youthf ul pair became 
attached, and were married at a small town in Florida, little dream- 
ing that the law of that state had certain clauses regarding mixed 
marriages, which, unless conformed with, would cast a fearful 
shade over their whole existence. 

It was not until three years afterward, w r lien they had already a 
son and daughter, and when a number of Actons had happened to 
die off most obligingly, that they discovered simultaneously with 
Mr. Acton’s accession to the titles and estates of their illustrious 
house, that he had no wife, and that the children born to him were 
illegitimate. 

The unhappy pair now heard for the first time that in the place 
where their supposed marriage took place it is obligatory, when one 
of the parties is a Roman Catholic, the other a Protestant, to make 
declaration of the fact, or the ceremony is null and void. Heaven 
and earth were moved to set matters right, but in vain. It was in 
nobody’s power— not even of the omnipotent British parliament— to 
redress the past. 

All that could be done was for a new marriage to begone through, 
which step was of course taken, and the unfortunate mother be- 
came a wife and a viscountess, but, alas ! nothing could be found to 
avail the children. No, they must pass through life as the illegiti- 
mate issue of blameless parents. Now it befell that three months 
after the new mairiage there came another son, but whether owing 
to the anguish its mother had gone through, or to some other cause. 


94 


SILVER^ AD. 


it proved from the first a complete cripple, and a feT months re- 
vealed only too certainly that it was also of weak intellect. 

Lady Hammersley, although no reproach attached to her, was of 
a highly sensitive mature, so that with every right and opportunity 
for entering the most fashionable circles, she shrunk from showing 
herself where she knew her cruel and strange story must be for ever 
whispered around her. 

Persuading her loving husband to emigrate once more, they hence- 
forth took up their abode in a somewhat remote part of Canada, 
where at the period now reached they still continued to reside, Lord 
Hammersley occasionally coming over to England. 

It was there that little by little they framed and matured a plan 
which, if not to be defended, can at least claim mitigating circum- 
stances in its favor. 

This was nothing less than the transposition of their two sons. 
Profiting by a journey of some two hundred miles to change all their 
servants, and also their head quarters from one town where they 
knew almost nobody to another where they had never set foot, they 
simply interchanged the names and ages of the two boys and the 
trick was done; to salve their consciences, they told themselves that 
the poor rightful heir, Cyril, could never have been benefited in any 
way by his position, while their beloved Lucius, who now was made 
to drop that appellation for ever, was only restored to what they 
called “ his moral rights before Heaven,” he being framed in every 
way to shine and enjoy, and alike to make up for their own obscur- 
ity and brilliantly to carry on the ancient honors of their house. 

The surreptitiously legitimatized boy being by this time seven 
years old — for the plot was not conceived and carried out with any 
rash haste — it became of course necessary to let him into the secret, 
and to explain to him, as far as possible, all the complex bearings of 
the strangely intricate case. 

Naturally a precocious youngster, especially where self-interest 
was concerned, he henceforth appeared even more wonderfully de- 
veloped, both in mind and body, than he really was, for he had to 
profess to be two full years younger than he actually was. It was 
truly wonderful how the little Lucius, henceforth Cyril, grasped 
and digested the whole situation, and even in time threw out many 
a valuable suggestion which had escaped the more limited acumen 
of the parental plotters. Thus, when there became question of 
sending him across the ocean to Eton, burning as they all were to 
launch their piratical human craft upon the home seas of life, and 
test how it nicty float, it was the boy himself who pointed out that 
two years’ delay were imperative, for he said: 

“It is easier for a fellow of fourteen to pass for twelve than for 
one of twelve to pass for ten. That you know—” and then he 
lowered his voice from habitual caution — “ is why you always hid 
me away so when 1 was little. ” 

For of course no urchin of a dozen summers considers himself 
small. 

O, how little did these fond, foolish parents dream that it was to 
this very manufactured Cyril, above all, that they were cruel and 
unjust 1 That a peerage with all its worldly accompaniments was 
but a poor indemnity for making his whole existence one long enacted 


SILYEKUEAD. 95 

lie! Yet such was most undoubtedly the case. By the light in 
which he was educated, success was everything, truth nothing. 

' It was not one falsehood of which they were guilty, but a whole 
brood, a progeny, a legion of lies, deceptions, wrongs of all kinds. 

If it is a platitude to say that, once abandon the right path, we 
know not whither we may stray, it is one that cannot be repeated too 
often. Here was a fearful case in point. Not only did this youth 
grow up utterly dead to all moral principle, but, some ten years after 
the first evil step had been taken, the perpetrators found themselves 
in the following appalling situation. 

Hammersley is a female title. It so happened that when Cyril was 
really seventeen, and actually at Eton — no doubt having been ever 
cast upon his genuineness — the poor idiot cripple, who had hardly 
ever known a day’s health, breathed his last. Lord and Lady Ham 
mersley had no more children after he was born. Unless then her 
ladyship betook herself to another world, and my lord were to marry 
again, it was evident that the title and estates ought, at his death, to 
devolve upon the next legitimate heir, who was no one than our plain 
friend Jack Forbes, his father’s mother having been an Acton, 
daughter of the eighth Viscount and fourteenth Baron Hammersley. 
Here then was the fearful dilemma, as it did not fail to present itself 
to the unhappy present bearer of the title. Either he must proclaim 
himself a cheat, and his son illegitimate, or he must do his cousin 
Forbes a monstrous wrong. Jack’s present position, of course, de- 
pending vastly upon whether he was merely a well-connected bach- 
elor with five hundred a year and no prospects — supposed to be at 
the Bar — or whether he shone forth as heir presumptive to the rich 
and very noble Lord Hammersley. To do the viscount justice, he 
not only hesitated long and sorely over the momentous questions, 
but he actually arrived at the very brink of taking the right and 
honorable course. Unhappily his wife talked him over. Perhaps 
that was just what he wanted. 

I do not believe in men being talked over against their will. 
Witness how hopeless it is to turn any of them from a purpose on 
which their heart is really set. 

Lady Hammersley ’s argument was, to say the least, a specious 
one. To sum it up in her own words, it was as follows: — 

“ If you blast my boy, you kill me. 1 know j r ou would marry 
again, you have never denied it, and I wish it. You would have 
another son, and what would your cousin Forbes be the better?” 

No doubt many fairly respectable people— mothers especially, and 
who pass for very edifying personages, will say she was right, and 
that they would do the same. As for their doing the same, that is 
no argument, although constantly put forth as one, still it is most 
fortunate for many of us that we are not tested by any such crucial 
ordeal. Needless to say that the young Etonian was not consulted 
under the new light— which his brother’s death threw upon the ques- 
tion, nor is there a doubt as to what his advice would have been. 
But he saw the whole bearings of the case perfectly well without 
anybody to point them out, and chiefly with the result of conceiving 
a fixed hatred for his kinsman Jack, whom at that time he had 
never seen. 

Popular alike at school and college, with that sort of popularity 


96 


SIIAERMEAD. 


which is to be acquired bj r a very clever individual of means and 
station, who makes it one of his chief aims, Cyril both pretended to 
feel what he did not and concealed what he really felt. Only the 
very sharp ones saw through him. These he detected, and contrived 
generally to make it worth their while not to expose so useful and 
agreeable a sham. 

At Cambridge he took a fair degree, less from hard work than 
great natural facility. Then he made the tour of Europe, during 
which he fell in with, and saw much of, Cave Harding and his little 
daughter ; after that he went and paid a dut3 r visit to his family — 
the second only since he first left them. He liked and got on with 
them well enough, but he was hardly what you would call a very 
affectionate son, though, happily, his parents" failed to see it, and he 
hurried back with what decent speed he could to the pursuit of his 
little plans on this side of the water. Although his father made him 
a princely allowance, he was always asking for more, while out of 
the thousands he received he spent barely six hundred a year, and, 
in fact, did nothing but hoard. To explain to the world the mod- 
esty of his state he let it be understood that his father was the real 
miser, and he thereby gave an avowable, if not very creditable 
motive for his parents’ long residence in Canada; averring that the 
cheapness of that country was, in Lord Hammersley’s eyes, its great- 
est charm. 

The true secret was that, notwithstanding all precautions taken, 
Cyril lived in constant dread of the whole fraud being discovered, 
and he told bimself that the only way to palliate the blow, if it 
should fall, was to feather his nest while the sun shone, in order that 
loss of credit and station should, in any case, not be aggravated by 

“ The thorny point of bare distress.” 

For, be it known, that even now, after some three and twenty 
years, there were yet those living who might possibly remember the 
truth, and, either from a sense of duty, or motives of gain, reveal 
it. Among these were the eminent doctor, Sir Ewing Crofton, who 
had attended Eady Hammersley in her last confinement, and his 
assistant, as also the nurses, a class often endowed with strangely 
retentive memories. 

Long and anxiously had the guilty ones pondered as to whether it 
were wiser to strive and secure, by any means, and at any price, the 
silence of lliese, and one or two other people, or to leave them alone, 
trusting only to chance and thus possible forgetfulness. At last it 
was decided to follow the latter and probably the -wiser course. Sir 
Ewing was of too high standing for it to be possible to bribe him 
either directly or indirectly, and he being the best educated among 
those who knew this secret, which they were not aware was any- 
thing of the kind, was most likely to retain the facts still in his 
mind. To attempt to shu^the mouths of the humbler persons was, 
of course, to put themselves irrevocably in their power. 

But by far the wisest precaution taken by the Hammersleys and 
their son, was to agree among themselves that, if the fatal truth 
should at any period transpire, all were to swear that Cyril had 
never had any knowledge of the fraud. Thus, whatever wrong had 


SILYERMEAD. 97 

been done, he, at least, was always to have clean hands and his 
personal honor to sutler no assoil. 

§ It was, moreover, an understood point that no compromising allu- 
sion, even of the vaguest, to the guilty secret was ever to be made 
in any of their letters to one another. 

Having now given this somewhat curious key to the young man’s 
character, it is time to return to him and his doings on the morning 
in question. From his apparent inability to settle down to anything 
— a most unusual mood with him— it is evident he exoects some- 
body, and that no mere gossiping visilor. 1ST or is he kept long wait- 
ing. After a rather languid knock at the street door, Mr. Harding 
is announced, and the friends give a cordial hand-shake. 

“ You are rather late,” says Acton. 

“My dear boy, you keep such unearthly hours,” returned 
Camilla’s papa, making himself snug in the most comfortable chair 
the room afforded, his back to the light. 

“ Why, it is ten o’clock,” said Cyril. 

“ Well,’ 1 was hard at it till three, and — ” 

“ Hard at what?” 

“ Why, fives,” with a bland smile. 

“Fives!” 

“ Ecarte. Don’t you remember my little joke?” 

“ You won — 1 see.” 

“ How do you know?” 

‘ * Ca se wit. How much ? ’ ’ 

“ Only a hundred. Couldn't get the money on.” 

“ Got paid?” 

“Half. Rest to morrow. It was all right. Feller said he’d only 
fifty ready when we began.” 

Now, Acton, albeit for his own wise ends a “ miser,” was fond of 
cards and excelled at them. He contrived to make them profitable 
too, for, although he did not care how much he won, he was never 
known to lose more than a very few pounds at a sitting. With his 
habitual cunning he had seen, on first meeting Cave Harding, how 
much he might learn of the sketches of play from that practiced 
hand, and this had been perhaps the main cause why he had culti- 
vated the intimacy. He had at this moment, however, other designs 
upon that very unsatisfactory person. 

“Well, now, my dear Harding, let’s talk,” said Cyril, seating 
himself opposite his visitor, toward whom he pushed a box of cigars; 
as the latter took one — he was a sensible creature, was poor Cave, in 
fact, like many weak men, he might be described as frightfully 
gregarious at all times — he asked — 

“ Aren’t you going to smoke? I always think a cigar after break- 
fast — you know.” 

“ Yes, yes, my poor friend, but don’t let’s discuss such things 
now, I have fellows coming 1 must see. Here. I’ll roll a cigarette; 
now come, have you thought of our late conversation?” 

“Yes, yes, about my darling. Can you ask? I swear I’ve 
thought of nothing else, Acton,” and here he seized the other’s hand. 
“ You — 3^ou will never know how 1 love that child. To think 
that—” 

His eyes filled with tears. 

4 


98 


SILYERMEAD. 


What Cyril mentally called “ this cursed maudlin delay,” though, 
only what he expected, yet bored him to death. 

“ I know, I know, but remember,” he urged, getting rid of the 
hand by a pressure and a push, “ that we have vital things — about 
Camilla herself— to settle, and do try and control your feelings.” 

But if Acton was in such a desperate hurry, that is no reason why 
we should be, and so let us pause a moment and contemplate Mr. 
Cave Harding as He sits there, his eyes full of water and hfs mouth 
full of smoke. 

As Sir Howard Brudenell had said of him in his description to 
Horace, this votary of Fortune is wonderfully well preserved in face 
and figure. His hair, even now at fifty years of age, is barely 
streaked with gray. 

There are constitutions to whom excitement seems the very staff 
of life, and not the wear and tear it is to lovers of peace and quiet. 
The marks of age on his face are, it is true, unmistakable ; but, to 
see them you must go close up to him, within a foot or two; and 
even then a very charming face it is still. You do not wonder in 
looking at it, that he has a lovely daughter. In type, the Harding 
face is vaguely like that of Charles I. Its main beauty is in the 
eyes, sanguine, dreamy, speculative eyes; but all the lineaments are 
refined and graceful. 

Strange beings these gamblers ! 

A physiognomist would not be surprised at the owner of such a 
countenance performing deeds of the highest valor and self-sacrifice; 
acts of media3val heroism — or giving proofs of the sublimest love and 
devotion; but, on the other hand, neither would he be astonished at 
his ruining his family, and “ letting in,” as it is called, every friend 
he had in the world. 

Only get poor Cave away from cards, dice, and betting, and never 
was man so easily amused. Set him to romp with a child on a lawn, 
or to play backgammon for lollipops, and his genuine excitement 
and delight are wonders to behold. 

You ask what on earth such a man could want with anything so 
gloomy as are the gayest vices. But, let a pretty face come by, and 
he forgot his wife; spread the green cloth, and he would stake his 
child’s dinner upon the turn of a card. The world speaks of such 
men as affectionate, but weak. Alas! is not their love mere emo- 
tion, their weakness crime? When Sir Howard had last seen him 
he was shabby in his attire. Now, he is irreproachably dressed, a 
bunch of violets in his coat. The fickle goddess he worships lias 
been smiling lately. His manner and whole bearing are unmistak- 
ably patrician. Why should they not be? He began life in that 
world of the highest fashion to which his birth entitled him, and 
there acquired a stamp which nothing but the abuse of alcohol seems 
to have the power to destroy. He still looks like a man who re- 
spects himself, and who knows but that he really does so? 

It is quite “ on the cards ” as he would say, that he often speaks 
comfortingly to himself, somewhat in this fashion: 

“ A defaulter! of course 1 am. Is it my fault that the run against 
me was longer than my purse? Doom any commercial man, any 
steady-going farmer, and old-established firm, to persistent bad 
luck, and they all must become defaulters like me. In my own 


SILVERMEAD. 


99 


sphere there are enough to keep me in countenance, heaven knows! 
Look at the Duke ot Kempton— Lord Sandown — and fifty others, 
who can’t show; as honoi able fellows as ever breathed, every one! 
We shall all pay some day, yes, to the utmost farthing, with luck!” 
Then all those escapades of his with the other sex, during his poor 
wife’s life, he laid down simply to his over appreciation of beauty. 

“ Not my fault,” he used to say, if expostulated with, and with 
something wonderfully like good faith. “ 1 am always very sorry 
and ashamed of myself afterward, 1 give you my honor; but at the 
time 1 am not my own master, not the least, 1 assure you, by Jove.” 
And after such kind of justification, he would go to sleep with a 
serene conscience and possibly dream till morning of wild flowers 
and nightingales. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Come,” pursued Acton, “ have you decided?” 

“ Well, really the thing is so sudden, 1 hardly know what to say. 
Why should you be in such a hurry?” 

“ A lover’s impatience.” 

“ In the old days, 1 own, 1 used sometimes to think — but dear me, 
it is hardly three weeks since she told me with her own lips — ” 

“ I know, about Brudenell. He at any rate is out of the question. 
The announcement of his engagement to Lady Susan Graye is hourly 
expected. 1 met them at the Duke’s last night, and he was most 
assiduous.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“Yes, yes, the thing is as good as settled. Whatever Lady Sue 
can see in him — but that is neither here nor there. I never saw a 
woman make such a fool of herself! She looked positively beatific, 
nothing less, ha, ha! as if she would jump down his throat.” 

“ Then you think poor Lilia — ” 

“ Hasn’t a chance. Not that she’ll care for the butterfly even a 
week. Not she. She’s too much sense, too much pride.” 

“ She has pride.” 

“ Lord, my dear Harding, it was a mere childish fancy from the 
first.” 

“ 1 hope so, I’m sure.” 

“ And I knew it must die a natural death if left alone.” 

“ Still,” said the father, only half convinced, “ if you heard the 
way she spoke of him to me.” 

“ That’s nothing.” 

“ And of her love—” 

“ Why, my dear friend, how of ten do you suppose they had met?” 

“ O, perhaps a dozen times, not much more.” 

“ Three — three in all, on my honor.” 

“ Really?” asked Harding, relieved. “ Well, 1 must say, then, I 
do not see that he can have taken deep root in her little heart.” 

“ No deeper than she appears to have taken in his, believe me. 
Now I truly love her. When she was a child I loved her as a 
brother, though even then 1 indulged at times in future dreams. But 
it was enough to see her once more — grown into the prettiest and 


100 


SILVERMEAD. 


most attractive girl in all England — to conceive for her a love that 
is as loyal as it is passionate. ” 

“ And did you tell her so?” 

“ How could I? Scarcely had the first warm words of greeting 
been spoken by each of us, and just as I was about to merge the 
brother in the aspirant — to modulate, if 1 may so express it, terms 
of welcome into those of admiration, than she began to confide to 
me as many a real sister would have done all about her flirtation with 
Brudenell — they were then not engaged — her hopes and fears, his 
imaginary perfections, and all the rest of it.” 

“ So you held up your hand and waited to be played to?” 

“Just so. That of course was our first meeting. After that we 
were together nearly every day. 1 never believed the other affair 
■would last, so did not allow myself to be miserable,- but my love 
grew deeper every hour. ’ ’ 

“ She used to be fond of you.” 

“ And will be again. But, my dear Harding, what I want is your 
sanction and support. I need not speak of her extraordinary devo- 
lion to yourself.” 

“ Yes, the imprisoned darling does love me, bless her!” 

“ Now listen to me. Fortunately Camilla wrote to me the other 
day — oh, a mere nothing, a commission from Lady Prendergast 
about some glass, but it gives me the privilege of writing to her in 
return, which her grandmother might otherwise have demurred at.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, trust me, the correspondence once begun, to conduct it to 
my own perfectly honorable ends. All 1 ask of you is this — and — 
well, there is nothing, nothing , mind, you shall not ask me in re- 
turn — may I tell her — not yet' you know, but when the right time 
comes — may 1 tell her that I have your authority and suppoit, that 
you accept me for a son-in-law?” 

“ My dear boy, you know how fond I have always been of you. 
As far as I am concerned, I had naturally much rather have you for 
Lilia’s husband than a fellow like— that other fellow whom I never 
saw.” 

“ I am delighted.” 

“ But you see I would in no way coerce her — or — or—” 

“ Who wants you, dearest friend, to do anything of the kind?” 
exclaimed Acton, in a tone almost more irritable than affectionate. 

“ First I must merely tell her how her lover is going on, then she 
will see in the paper the news of his engagement. That will be the 
tune! 1 strike while the iron is hot. Pique, wounded pride, the 
desire to show her false one how little she cared, a thousand feelings 
combine to aid me.” 

“ But— yes, 1 see, I see; still 1 should hardly like my darling to 
fling herself into marriage, merely from such motives— I mean with- 
out due thought, calm reflection.” 

“ But 1 plead only tor betrothal, not for immediate marriage. Do 
you think, my good Harding, that 1 want to surprise a woman into 
marrying me, who doesn’t love me? No, no, 1 must win her heart, 
and believe me 1 shall win it.” 

“ Well, well, , if all you tell me of young Brudenell be true — ” 


SILVERMEAD. 


101 

"If? I give you my honor of it; besides, ask anyone. If that 
is all you hesitate about.” 

‘ ‘ Then, I have no more to say, my dear Cyril. I am only anxious 
not to take so important a step about the only being on earth I—” 

“ Quite so, 1 understand. Then it is agreed if 1 can win your 
daughter, you give her to me?” 

“ And only too proud. Believe me 1 am not insensible of the 
honor you do us.” And the tears came again into the father’s eyes, 
and hands were once more shaken. 

“ 1 am aware, dear boy, that my conduct in the past has been 
open to — ” 

" Not a word, not a word, I beg.” 

" O, but it has, and 1 feel it deeply for Lilia’s sake.” 

‘ ‘ Dearest sir, 1 implore. ’ ’ 

All this was boring Acton, in spite of his joy at having carried his 
point. 

" But my heart,” concluded poor Cave, "my heart is always in 
the right place. ’ ’ 

Those " other people,” with whom Cyril Acton also had business 
— it was touching a chancery suit of his father’s — of no consequence 
to this history — now made their appearance. Cave Harding was 
cordially got rid of, and this lover of Camilla number two bent nis 
thoughts on other things. 

Did he love her? 

That depends upon what is understood by love. Like little Dr. 
Finn, false rumors of Miss Harding’s monetary prospects had 
reached him. Indeed, Cave Harding, who knew nothing of the 
facts of the case, but who had a great facility for believing what he 
wished, was always accustomed to speak of Silvermead as certain 
to come to his daughter. 

To say truth, Acton had mainly accepted the de Basle’s invitation 
that he might have a look at " the little heiress,” as he menta]ly put 
it, and no sooner did he set eyes on her, than he — well, lie did not 
lose his heart, he had none — but he began to conceive a passion for 
her charms that from that day burned in his veins with an even 
fiercer fire, and became part of his very life. He would very likely 
have gone in for her, as the saying is, even if he had found her plaiu 
— and who can possibly tell what a girl of fourteen will be like in 
thiee years? — for doubtless his god was money. Harding— who, 
adroit gamester though he was, was yet full of simplicity— never 
dreamed of this. 

He thought, and the mistake is constantly made by far more per- 
spicacious people, that because young Acton spent so little money, 
therefore he did not care for it. 

With his accustomed art, we have seen that Cyril concealed from 
Camilla a little of his passion and his aims. His admiration he 
showed freely enough, but only in its strictest presentable aspect. 
And it was well for him he was thus cautious. Nonice-minded girl 
can endure to be courted with a passion that is devoid of love. To 
the very young, this is especially revolting, and is wnat makes many 
of them instinctively loath their suitors, though they do not under- 
stand why. 

Sweet little Lilia was too innocent — still too child-like to have even 


102 


SILVEKMEAD* 


conceived of such things. She thought all men loved as she did; 
and she was so far right, in that all real love is pure. 

Living alone with her grandmother, and devoid of friend, male or 
female, to whom she could speak without reserve, she had hailed 
the arrival in the country of this favorite of hers and her father’s 
wit n hearty delight, though his visit was, she knew, only to he a 
brief one. 

As a child— wlien she had first known him, she was but twelve — 
he had always taken great notice of her, simply because it amused 
him to elicit her fresh and arch remarks about persons and things, 
to listen to her quaintly expressed little scraps of worldly wisdom so 
strangely picked up. Acton had hardly a poetic mind, yet in those 
days Lilia always reminded him of some tender hot-house flower 
blooming in a gutter. Many a night, when her father’s luck was 
low, had she lain awake, longing to pray that he might be coming, 
but with a vague idea that she must not, because it was wicked. 
Acton would read all this in her jaded eyes next day. In those old 
times, too, it was often Lilia who played the intermediary between 
her father’s empty pockets and rapacious hotel-keepers or 'landladies 
clamoring for their bills. On one or two rare occasions it was Cyril 
Acton who had lent Harding a few pounds to meet these emergencies 
—it was done sadly against the grain — but in the latter times how 
he blessed the happy instance that had prompted him to such un- 
wonted magnanimity ! He had not only been repaid, if with long 
delay, the small sums he had risked, but had laid up a little fund 
of gratitude in the little maiden’s breast which had accumulated at 
compound interest. For Lilia was one of those not merely to re- 
member to her dying day any favor received, but generously to ex- 
aggerate its importance. On meeting again with her old friend 
then, this ingenuous girl unconsciously took the acts of kindness 
above referred to as the key to Acton’s whole character. 

Surely it is a tlirice-blessed thing that the brightest, most gifted 
among young girls do not show their cleverness by reading beneath 
the fair surface of their friends, and discovering the mud that often 
lies so thickly beneath; or where would be their simplicity, their 
sweet, though deceived, faith in the goodness of mankind, where, 
in a word, their charm? 

But of all the deeds of Cyril Acton his late energetic assistance in 
enabling her to hold that fatal midnight meeting with her father 
was the one to which she attached the most price. It may be re- 
membered that on the occasion of Acton’s last call upon Lady Pren- 
dergast, that lady, while giving him credit for the best intentions, 
yet firmly informed him that he and her niece must meet no more. 
The cause of this was that lie had then come as the avowed companion 
of Mr. Harding, for it had been settled among the three that this 
last effort should be tried upon the bitter old lady before resorting to 
the desperate measure which followed its failure. ‘When °the 
dowager discovered upon what close terms Acton and Cave Hardin g 
must necessarily be, she would have abandoned the whole policy of 
years had she not strenuously forbidden any further personal inter- 
course between the former and her pet dove. It was to soften the 
asperity with which she treated him on that occasion that she after- 
ward deputed Camilla to write about the stained glass. 


SILVERMEAD. 


103 


Since that memorable Saturday afternoon Camilla and he had 
never met, and until the letter she wrote to him inclosing that long 
one which she charged him to forward to Horace, no correspondence 
had passed between them. 

When Acton received that double mission one morning at his early 
breakfast and ran his eye eagerly over the few lines addressed to 
himself, his first feeling was one of satisfaction that he was alone — 
alone to do exactly as he might choose. The hissing urn was before 
him. The envelope to Horace was simply stuck down with no pre- 
cautionary seal. In the coolest way in the world, without even a 
sliglic inward struggle, Acton extended his hand and held the sacred 
trust in the steam. 

Having effected his purpose he positively interrupted his frugal 
meal for fully ten minutes in the shameless violation of all poor lit- 
tle Lilia’s sacred outpourings. 

As he read, at each fresh evidence of the depth of her love he 
came to, he felt a twinge — a sort of pang, not of remorse, far from 
it, but of a sort of cruel rage mixed with sarcasm: he almost grinned 
as he perused, a sardonic exultation mingling with his jealousy. 

“Yes,” he inwardly muttered, “ but I shall not be jealous long. 
The game is mine. What though she will never love me like this is 
she the less lovely on that account? Even should she hate me when 
I at last throw off the mask, why, what care I?” 

He read the letter twice through from end to end, and then 
quietly tore it up into the most carefully small bits, and consigned 
it to the slop-basin. 

“ Now what shall I tell her,” he mused, “ that I posted it? No. 
The post so seldom fails. I’ll write that 1 left it myself at his club, 
not knowing his private address.” 

He did know it, for he had returned Horace’s card, but she was 
not likely to hear of that. 

“ It is quite useless,” he went on, “ my making any decisive move 
at present beyond getting the old man’s consent. 1 shall write her 
charming letters, of course, but 1 must wait for that fellow Brude- 
nell’s grand match to be blazed about before it will be any good to 
go down to the neighborhood. When I do go, I must be armed 
with some sure scheme for getting that ancient she-dragon to remove 
her ban. Yes, I’ll give her my sacred word to be no link between 
father and daughter, and what’s more, I’ll keep it. De Basle is a 
rare old trump, and delights in match-making. Strikes me he was 
half spooney on Lilia himself. Anyhow he told me to come down 
and stay a fortnight or longer, any time 1 chose. Yes, 1 think the 
game is altogether very decidedly in my favor, but pshaw ! the clever 
are always lucky.” 

Without showing any desire to be intimate with Horace, he 
deemed it wise to keep on fairly friendly terms, and had always a 
pleasant word for him when they met; moving as they did in the 
same circles, this was at least two or three times a week. Horace's 
attentions to Lady Susan would have astonished Acton beyond 
bounds had he not already committed the dastardly act of reading 
poor Camilla’s lettei, before the flirtation had attracted much notice. 
Cyril had seen well enough what was going on at the JMasham ball, 
and had even asked Camilla privately next day— he happened to 


SILYERMEAD. 


104 

lunch at Lady Fouroaks’— whether Brudenell had not proposed. 
She, although much surprised, and blushing deeply, candidly ad- 
mitted that he had, and that she had accepted him Indeed she 
owned to herself that the questioner’s old friendship robbed the step 
of anything that was unbecoming or wounding. 

ISow all was clear as day. Yes, as Camilla suggested in her plead- 
ing, tear-stained epistle to her lover, Cyril saw that some wind of 
that midnight encounter must somehow or other have reached 
Brudenell, as, otherwise, his conduct was inexplicable. 

“ And who,” Acton asked himself, “ can he suppose the mysteri- 
ous Romeo to have been? Me, perhaps! Ha, ha, the idea is deli- 
cious; for 1 could see he was as jealous of me as a cake of ocher at 
the ball.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Here is Mr. Cyril Acton’s first letter to Camilla. 

“ My dear Miss Camilla, — If you had given me any hint of the 
purport of your letter to my friend Brudenell 1 fancy I should have 
written to expostulate with you, or, at least, asked you to reconsider 
its contents before forwarding it to him. Old friends as we are, 1 
think you would have forgiven me such a step had you known all 
its motives. 

“ With my deep, deep regard for your character and person, you 
cannot conceive what I endure at "the hare thought that any one , 
however favored by you — and indeed th,e more so on that account 
— can venture to treat you otherwise than you deserve. I need not, 
1 am sure, ask you to glance at the past, to feel certain there is no 
danger of your thinking me a mauvaise langue. If, then, I tell you 
facts that are not to the credit of him to whom I know you have 
lent an encouraging ear, it is not merely that you have the best right 
to be informed of them ; but they are for the most part public acts, 
known to everybody in town, and only blameworthy if they injure 
you. But if your letter to Mr. Brudenell was to express a change 
of mind — to break oft any engagement there may have been between 
you— 1 can well understand how superfluous what I am going to 
say must, appear. Enough for me that you may wish to read it. ^ If 
Mr. Brudenell’s doings have become a matter of indifference to you, 
pray tear up this letter without reading another line. To be sure, 1 
think if you had broken with him you would have told me so in 
your letters, because when you favored his suit you honored me 
with your confidence. ’ ’ 

When the young man had penned thus far, he paused for a con- 
siderable time to reflect. Should he or should he not set down im- 
aginary conversations between himself and Horace? The danger uf 
doing so was glaringly apparent, but exactly on that account did it 
fascinate him. Prudence was his favorite virtue, but was it pru- 
dent to omit the chief means of making his letters interesting to 
Camilla? Let him but widen the breach which already separated 
them, ancl how could they ever meet to compare notes? Brudenell 
was evidently on the eve of engaging himself to Lady Susan Graye, 
and so long as Acton could induce Camilla either to hold no com- 


SILYERMEAD. 


105 


munication with her late lover or to make himself her postman, 
there was no prospect of anything occurring to break off the new 
engagement. 

Camilla’s letter to Horace had taught Acton how desperate, almost 
frenzied, the girl might become, and that there were few measures 
to which she would not resort ere she succumbed to her fate in 
despair. 

Yes, everything depended on now monopolizing her confidence, 
on taking care she made no step without his advice, or, at least, 
knowledge. None know better than impostors the value of the 
proverb “ Nothing venture, nothing have. ” He took another dip 
of ink and wrote on. 

“ Although I had left your letter at his club with my own hands, 
it was, I felt, too sacred a trust to admit of any risk ; so meeting 
Mr. Brudenell a day later— it was at a dinner party giren by our 
friends the De Basies’ — 1 drew my chair nest to his when the ladies 
left the table, and this is almost word for word what passed. I 
said: 

“ ‘ I left a letter at your club yesterday, from Miss Harding.’ 

“ A cloud instantly came over his brow. 

“ ‘ O, you left it. It was kind of you to take the trouble.’ 

“ * Miss Harding did not know your address.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, to be sure. You — you are a great friend of hers, I be- 
lieve?’ 

“‘I am proud to say I am. 1 have known her from a child. ’ 

“He seemed to hesitate for some moments, then he said con- 
strainedly : 

“ ‘ As that is the case, 1 need not apologize for troubling you with 
a few words about her. The fact is, I don’t think 1 have behaved 
to her — very well.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed!’ 

“ 1 said that word severely, yet not so as to shut him up, for I 
wanted him to go on. 

“ He said: 

“ ‘ 1 think when 1 have told you how it was, you w r ill see 1 am 
now acting for the best; and without giving her a message, mind, 
you might say you thought it best to let her know how I looked at 
. the thing. ’ 

“ ‘Yes, pray go on.’ 

“ * Well, my uncle, Sir Howard, has other matrimonial views for 
me which 1 need not particularize. These were known and partly 
accepted by me before that ball at Hasharn, where I first had the 
pleasure of meeting you. ’ 

“ 1 nodded. 

“ ‘That evening I had the deuce of a flirtation with the little 
girl — ’ 

“ ‘ 1 beg your pardon?’ 

“ * With Miss Harding— I beg hers— I fancy I had had too much 
champagne. I know we talked— I talked— a lot of rubbish; in 
short, it seems she says— I proposed to her. ’ 

“ ‘ And then?’ 

“ ‘ Well, of course, the thing is absurd— a mere after supper mis- 
take. I don’t mind telling you, 1 am quite dependent on my uncle. 


SILVERMEAD. 


106 

He wishes me to marry Lady Sue — to marry a bride of his own 
choicel there is nothing for it but to obey. Now, 1 always think, 
you know, “ The least said, soonest mended.” And that is the rea- 
son 1 attempted no explanation with your amusing little friend, and 
if you like, tell her so— that is why I haven’t thought it wise to an- 
swer her rather gushing letter. ’ 

“ Dearest Miss Camilla, words cannot describe to you what it costs 
me to send }mu these expressions. 1 quiver with rage as 1 pen them ; 
I frankly own that 1 sat dumb, making no sign whatever. 1 did 
not trust myself to move or speak; I remembered, thank Heaven, 
where 1 was. 

‘ ‘ Presently he said : 

“ ‘ My marriage will be announced in a few days, and 1 am sure 
Miss Harding will see it in the Morning Post with no great perturba- 
tion.’ 

“ Then a general move to the drawing-room was made, and no 
more was'said. 

“Very probably you have heard by this time that the lady to 
whom this man is paying his very confident and conspicuous ad- 
dresses, is no other than your friend Lady Susan Graye, and 1 must 
say she smiles most unmistakably upon his suit — poor thing! Ah, 
she little knows him ! 

“It is some comfort to me to think that your proper pride, of 
which you had always so much, will from this time prevent your 
ever feeling anything but contempt for one who has proved so utter- 
ly unworthy of so much as a passing thought from you, and whom 
I shall in future treat with the barest civility. 

“ Excuse the undue length of this letter, I could not make it 
shorter and write as 1 feel from my heart. Command me always 
and in all things, and believe me, 

“ Your devoted friend, 

‘ ‘ Cyril Acton. 

“ P.S. — Your good father is well. I see him often and will speak 
more of him in my next letter. He has been prosperous of late.” 

The only true particle of this epistle was that the writer had met 
at dinner, at the De Basies’, the man into whose mouth he was 
sliamelessl 3 r cramming all the foul inventions of his own base mind; , 
but only a few words on the commonest generalities had passed be- 
tween them, the very name of Miss Harding, it is needless to say, 
never being so much as breathed by either. 

After that dinner party Mrs. De Basle had a reception, which, as 
the papers said, was brilliantly attended. She was a woman about 
whom, even if she played a significant part in this history, there 
would be little to say. She owed what importance she had solely to 
her husband’s position and abilities. The daughter of a not very 
celebrated law lord, she was neither highly gifted nor absolutely 
stupid, had' been originally indebted for what entity she possessed to 
the fact of her being merely a pretty woman. As she was now 
fifty, she had become a nonentity, for of course she was no longer 
pretty. She knew how to receive, and dressed rather well ; she was 
wife of the Right Honorable Courtenay De Basle, M.P., and there 
was an end of it. They were a very happy though childless couple. 


SILVERMEAD. 


107 

and slie managed never even to make enemies, which some men 
might have thought implied inferiority, but her husband was de- 
lighted with it. 

The party, like all other parties, was a success, and nobody was 
bored because perhaps nothing was done to amuse them. The De 
Basies paid their guests the compliment of supposing them equal to 
entertaining one another. 

“ Oh, those concerts, recitations and the like! Suppose you hate 
such things, or have before heard the present individual, and do not 
approve the talent. You are talking very likely, expressly not to 
hear, having retired for the purpose to what you consider an amply 
well-bred distance. In vain! Some more or less deputed hanger-on 
of the house seems to run after you through the crowd, bent on 
shouting sh — sli — into your ear! 

No such drawbacks were present to-night, an occasion on which 
we come across several old acquaintances whom we have not met 
for some time. 

There are various ways of showing you are in the best society; 
the De Basies did so by "proving to the world that they could afford 
to ask whom they pleased. 

It was not merely a stray Italian singing-master, or British sculp- 
tor with a foreign- looking head of hair, but they would have at any 
of their routs whole families of people you seldom met elsewhere, 
thoroughly nice, well-bred people, but who were not otherwise in 
the first flight. No, the De Basies were not fine. They would have 
thought it vulgar to be fine. Yet they received and went to the 
very "finest people in London, and out of it. 

Imitate them, it you wish it, by all means, but do not be above a 
word of warning. 

Begin at the right, that is at. the difficult end, otherwise your 
aviary will be invaded by all the wild fowl of the air, and the sky 
birds of dazzling plumage will never come to be fed at all ! 

The worst that can be said of the De Basle receptions is, that they 
are rather crowded, but this even is hjrpercriticism, for the house— 
a real mansion, not merely a house-agent’s mansion— is very large, 
and the staircase as wide as a narrow street; so that those very peo- 
ple who, for something to say, exclaim, “ What a crush,” would be 
the first to set these parties down as “ rather thinly attended ” if 
some fifty guests less happened to be present. 

It wants lialf-an-hour of midnight, and the evening is at its 
height. . 

To have done with disagreeables first, there is that horrid Miss 
Laffinch. She is actually staying in the house, to the great disgust 
of its owners, but she wrote to say a near and dear relation who lay 
dangerously ill had implored her to come and receive her last breath, 
and Miss Laffinch declared she could not afford an hotel, so the De 
Basies gave her leave to come to them for a couple of nights. She 
has been here ten days, yet her mysterious relation seems to decline 
either to die as promised, or to get well. 

Better and worse she does get, just as the old maid wishes to 
avoid some dull ceremony, or to take part in a gay one. She has 
got hold of Sir Howard to-night and trades on his good-breeding to 
make him do the civil. She wishes people to think he is showing 


10 $ 


SILVERMEAD. 


her attention, being perfectly aware all the time that he is only look- 
ing out for the first plausible pretext to shake her off. She is always 
going into ecstasies over the baronet’s Chesterfieldean manners, 
while secretly despising both him and all others who allow her to 
impose upon them, or to continue to be coerced by their habitual 
considerations of delicacy in dealing with an individual who has 
none. 

It is instructive to note what a number of victims a person utterly 
devoid of delicacy can find ready to be sacrificed, especially in good 
society. Some are easily deceived by specious excuses, some, 
though less thoroughly hoodwinked, are too good-natured to rebel, 
while probably the largest class of victims owe their being so to 
sheer apathy, or their dread of a row. 

“ Yes, and you were saying?” said Sir Howard, actually finding 
himself maneuvered into taking a seat at the harpy’s side. * 

** Oh, my dear friend, such an escape! A horrid little minx, be’ 
lieve me. ’ ’ 

“ You surprise me! From the little I have seen of her I own 1 
thought her charm — ” 

“ Don’t you know why? Then I’ll tell you. She was acting to 
you because she wants your nephew. Poor darling boy! Oh, what 
an escape, Sir Howard!” and here she struck him quite hard with 
her fan, w'hich made him shy. “ I got you both out of that. Oh, 

1 warned poor Horace. Oh, he was far further gone than you 
think!” 

“ I remember your saying something — ” 

“ Oh, law, I didn’t tell you half. You know my hatred of tat- 
tling, so cautious what I say. But 1 can tell you now.” 

“ Well, now it is all over, and 1 don’t in — ” 

“ Oh, but 1 wish it. You shall hear. It was all over the county. 
You know young A.cton?” 

” Lord Hammersley’s son, yes.” 

“ A dear fellow. A very lovable boy. Well, Miss Hardiug got 
hold of him and kept him always dangling after her, poor young 
man ! Oh, bless you, Sir Howard, she’s a very old hand, and, 
frightful as it may appear, acted when only a mere child as decoy 
at her horrid old father’s gambling parties.” 

“ Miss Latfinch, I tell you plainly, 1 do not believe—” 

“ You never do, you never do! Dear friend, you are so innocent. 
Oh, I love you for it, but you ought to go and live in a planet ! vou 
ought indeed!” 

Miss Laffinch’s astronomy evidently does not embrace the fact of 
our earth being one. 

”1 see a woman over there I particularly want to speak to,” 
urged her companion, “ and if you will excuse me,” he was about 
to rise, she pulled him down by the arm. 

“ One moment, and you shall take me across the room with you. 

I have been over to Silvermead lately a good deal. 1 love the dear 
old lady. Well, at first, I wanted to be kind to that brazen chit of a 
girl, merely wdth the thought that I might reclaim her. And then 
she was looking so ill.” 

“ 1 thought lier pale, poor girl, the day 1 was there.” 

“ Oh, pasty! quite dough and water. Yes. Haven’t you noticed 


SILVERMEAD. 


109 


how those flighty girls always collapse and go to pieces unless 
they’ve a man at their heels? Well, will you believe it? when 1 
came to condole with her, in the most delicate and vague way, upon 
our dear Horace’s departure, she positively snapped my nose off. ’ ’ 

And the old wretch began scratching that decidedly rubicund 
member, as though it tingled at the bare metaphor. 

“ I hope she did,” thought Sir Howard, rather amused, but he 
only said, “ Indeed.” 

“ Oh, she was most insolent, and I feel certain now that those 
shocking reports about her and young Acton—” 

Here she suddenly lowered her voice and poured its venom into 
the very pouches of Sir Howard’s ear. But, with your leave, we 
will pass on, as, judging from what she says aloud, her conversation 
will not be fit to listen to when she whispers. 

Acton and Jack Foibes met on the staiicase; the former going to 
a ball, the latter just arrived at Mrs. De Basle’s reception. 

“ Oh, cousin Jack, whence do you hail? You have never come 
to see me as you promised.” 

It was part of Acton’s plan to cultivate “ cousin Jack,” as he calls 
him. Should anything happen he knows it will be safer to have him 
predisposed in his favor. They had hardly ever met previous to 
Acton’s visit to shire. 

“ Why, 1 go about very little. I am working for the Bar. I 
came to-night because I thought it so good of Mrs. De Basle to 
think of me. I had not called. ” 

“ Yes. 1 gave her your address. I say, old fellow, dine with me 
to-morrow at eight, will you?” 

“ 1 shall be very happy. At your rooms?” 

“ Yes. Ta-ta.” 

And as Acton went down and out, he thought: “Hate the ex- 
pense of a dinner, but this is business and I must do it well. Don’t 
know, though, perhaps he’d be more flattered at being treated as a 
relation, a bit of fish and a steak. Yes, that’s it. He doesn’t seem 
a bad sort of devil. Dear me, to think that at my dad’s death that 
fellow becomes a viscount with eighteen thousand a year! If he 
knew it! It wouldn’t be a bad idea to poison him to-morrow. 
Splendid opportunity, only dangerous, and then I’ve got no poison. 
With him out of the' way the title would really become extinct but 
for me, and it would be no one’s interest to show me up.” 

Then more brightly : 

“ Doesn’t look as if he’d require much of a quieter. Jove, 1 
never saw a fellow T look so seedy! Deuced awkward his going in 
for the Bar, too. A lawyer has fifty opportunities of — ” 

But here his cogitations were cut short by his arrival at the ball, 
and two minutes later he was whirling round some sweet little girl 
w r lio imagined herself in the arms of a Christian and a gentleman. 

Had she not seen him devout at church last Sunday? 

To return to our rout. 

Lady Fouroaks, dressed in the brightest colors, has just arrived, 
and with an unconscionably long train of relations and friends. She 
banters them all the way up the stately stairs, and her words and 
laughter sound gayly above the hum, like the soprano in a comic op- 
eratic finale. 


SILVERMEAD. 


110 

“ You would have us, you know, dear friend,” she says, shaking 
hands with her hostess. “I told you unless you would have our 
entire dinner-party we couldn’t come. Listen, your butler is telling 
you their names, the list is too long for me.” 

“Delighted, delighted to see any number of your frieuds, they 
are always charming. ’ ’ 

And even as she speaks, Mrs. De Basle is bowing welcome to one 
after another. 

When they have passed in, Lady Fouroaks says to her hostess, 
lowering her voice: 

“ A queer- looking lot, some of them, eh? Friends of Fouroaks; 
you know he is scientific. As for that foreigner, my dear, in the 
short hair and blue spectacles, though he brought a letter from 
someone in Wallacliia, Fm certain he’s a thief in disguise, and I 
advise you to have him watched as to the spoons; ha, ha, ha!” 

“ Oh, 1 think I will risk it. I did not catch his name. ” 

“I’ll tell you another day. It is such a long one, I have only 
studied the first four syllables. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, Mr. Brudenell, 
how do you do? I want to talk to you. Why, we haven’t met since 
the Hasham ball. So sorry to have been out when you called.” 

“ 1 was very sorry. 1 hope your daughters are — ” 

“ Oh, quite, thanks, there they are over there. Let me see, what 
was it? O, yes, what has become of my little pet, Miss Harding? I 
never saw a man so smitten as you were that night. ” 

“ Um — Miss Harding — ” said Horace, his face clouding, “ I — I 
have never seen her since — to speak to — ” 

“You don’t tell me so! What, forgotten already? Oh, you 
young men! Well, 1 am astonished, for 1 thought it was a case. 
You shall take me down for an ice.” 

“ She is a very pretty fascinating girl, no doubt,” said Horace, 
giving his arm, but speaking in an absent, grave way, which puz- 
zled Lady Fouroaks. 

‘ ‘ And do you know, ’ ’ pursued the latter, as they went down, ‘ ‘ 1 
thought she was as far gone as you were. All the way home we 
couldn’t get a word out of her, and when my girls chaffed her about 
you next day — you know what we are, we all say ’what comes upper- 
most, whether people like it or not, ha, ha, ha! — when Mabel and 
Adela joked about it next morning, she looked miserable for a mo- 
ment, and— Oh, dear me, here are Lord Caulfield, and Lady Susan. 
How do you do! how do you do? Just come — No — wliat going, 
really? Good-night, then.” 

Horace, who had been talking to Lady Susan up to the time he met 
Lady Fouroaks, felt he had sufficiently done his duty for the night 
in that quarter. 

Besides, he could not in common decency leave his present com- 
panion standing, ice in hand, at the buffet, even to ask for the other 
lady’s carnage. Much to his surprise, he found himself so interest- 
ed in Lady Fouroaks’ narration as to be quite irritated at having it 
interrupted, although the persons to do it were his intended bride 
and her noble father. Before they were out of sight, he said: 

“ Yes, then you were saying — ” 

“ Dear me, what was 1 saying?” 

“ About — your daughters.” 


• SILYERMEAD, 111 

“ My daughters? No, surely,” and the somewhat scatter-brained 
little woman was really at sea. 

“ An,d Miss Harding.” 

“ Oh, I remember. Yes, when my thoughtless girls chafted her, 
she burst into tears.” 

“ Tears?” 

“Oh, torrents!” 

“ Never!” 

“Yes, yes; you know she did not see they were joking. Adela 
kept abusing you, all in fun, you know. And fancy your forgetting 
her so soon; it’s quite — ha, ha, ha! — enough to shake one’s faith in 
— what a funny looking picture that is over there. Sacred, isn’t it? 
— to shake one’s — would you mind taking me up to the drawing- 
room, I must really see how my scratch pack aie behaving them- 
selves, ha, ha, ha!” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Horace Brudenell was having his first London season in the 
fullest sense of the word. 

"VVas he enjoying it? Was he happy? 

That is another thing. But 1 should say that he was both in a fair 
degree. 

Had he had a dream of the truth, no earthly allurement could have 
kept him an hour from flying back to his love at Silvermead, but as 
it was, although he still often bewailed his departed vision, the liv- 
ing Camilla had almost ceased to occupy his thoughts. 

It seems hard to say so, but the chances are that if, before he had 
ceased to believe in her, this fair young girl had died, it would not 
have taken very long for his youth and worldly advantages to so far 
conquer his grief as to make life more than bearable, especially life 
of a gay and exciting kind. Que voulez vous f 

It is of no use painting persons and things as they are not. Horace 
was but two-and- twenty, and of the male sex. 

If old battered votaries of fashion still find distraction and a cer- 
tain amount of pleasure in the brilliant dinner-party, the crowded 
ride, the opera and the studio, after far more seasons than they will- 
ingly own to, surely due allowance must be made for the effect of 
these things upon the virgin impressionability of a youthful mind, 
and youthful pulses. 

Shunning the dependence of rooms, Horace finally settled, with 
his uncle’s approval, upon a small house in Chapel Street, Park 
Lane, for which he is to pay fifteen guineas a week, and excellently 
furnished as it is, he has reason to be pleased with his bargain. 

To-day Jack Forbes is lunching with him. Needless to say that 
before leaving Massing, Horace told his old friend every detail of 
that midnight pilgrimage of his, and of the momentous changes 
wrought thereby in his heart and projects. But since they have 
been up in London, the very name of Camilla Harding has by tacit 
consent never so much as been breathed between them. 

“ Why, Jack,” says the host, “ you are still off your feed. You 
haven’t been falling in love, have you?” 


112 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ Ha, ha, that is a luxury we poor devils don’t go in for! No, it’s 
my breath; 1 cannot get right.” 

44 Jack, 1 tell you again, you ought to see some one.” 

“ What, send for a doctor when 1 am well enough to go about, to 
ride your horses, and eat — well, no, 1 don’t eat much.” 

4 * Own that you have never been the same man since that day you 
tumbled into the pond— I beg my relation’s pardon — the lake at 
home. ’ ’ 

44 1 admit it, 1 have shivering fits once or twice a week; but in 
this hot weather 1 suppose 1 shall shake them off in a few days.” 

“ Jack, I don't want to alarm you heedlessly, but you look ill — 
very ill. Your loss of appetite is a bad sign.” 

44 It is too absurd,” said Jack with much bitterness, 44 that a 
slrong young chap like me can’t take an involuntary dip in cold 
water without being knocked up. Why, you and Lady Caulfield 
were none the worse!” 

44 You forget, we were not heated at the time, while you had been 
having a scamper with the greyhounds.” 

44 1 never thought of that. Yes, to be sure, I was a bit hot.” 

44 Well,” said Horace, 44 there’s the whole point. Just you see a 
doctor before you are a day older, for my sake if not for your own. 
Now, as you won’t eat, and I have finished, let us stroll across the 
park to the Caulfield’s. Jack, I think I shall propose to-day.” 

4 4 1 am surprised. ’ ’ 

44 Why?” 

4 4 1 thought you had done that long ago. Anyhow, it is a mere 
form.” 

44 Well, Jack, it’s no use playing the modest to you, I suppose it’s 
as good as settled,” and quite unconsciously Brudenell heaved a sigh. 

44 Of course you know 1 wish you all happiness, and all that.” 

44 Thanks, old feller — awfully.” 

They took their hats and issued forth. The day was very hot for 
May, but it failed to warm poor Forbes. 

44 Jack,” said Horace, 44 1 am so glad — 1 mean more than usual — 
to have you with me to-day. 1 feel you give me courage. ” 

Forbes was so astonished that he stood still, as foreigners are 
wont to do when conversation grows earnest. 

44 1 shouldn’t have thought you wanted any,” he said. ' 4 Why, 
you confess — ” 

44 I know, 1 know,” pursued the jolly, thriving wooer, as they 
walked on, 44 about being accepted, and all that, but — ” 

44 But?” 

44 Well, of course, I have quite made up my mind. I have prom- 
ised uncle Howard, and all that— and then, anyhow it would be very 
dishonorable after the marked attentions 1 have shown her — ” 

44 1 think I understand.” 

4 Oh, I like Lady Susan very much— very much indeed, I assure 
you.” 

44 1 am so glad. . 1 thought perhaps — ” 

44 No, no, it isn’t that. 1 suppose it is the irrevocableness of the 
step that rather staggers me. I have only felt this when I have 
come to the actual point, to speak the precise words: 4 Will you 


SILYEKMEAD. 


113 


have me?’ and that is why I have been putting it off— weakly, I 
think — from day to day.” 

“ If you fear you may regret it, I should put it off now.” 

“ What would be the use? It must come, I tell } r ou. But, 
Jack, old man, 1 want to ask you: Do you believe that one ought to 
listen to a perfectly unfounded, unreasonable instinct! for such I 
feel within me now prompting me not to engage myself to Lady 
Susan.” 

” My dear Horace, is it really a groundless instinct? For my own 
part, 1 have often refrained from some step simply from such a feel- 
ing, and discovered later on that 1 had all along some excellent rea- 
son which happened to have lain hidden the while in some fold of 
my consciousness.” 

‘‘ It may be so; and yet, if we ruled our lives upon such subtle- 
ties, it strikes me there would be endless hesitation, and — no, my 
mind’s made up. 1 think 1 shall be more at peace when deliberation 
is beyond my power. Do you entertain Lady Caulfield — lure her 
away to some distance— but, my dear fellow, good gracious!” 

And he seized his companion vigorously by both elbows, and al- 
most lifted him to a friendly bench in the shade. 

Forbes had turned as white as a sheet, and but for Horace must 
have fallen. 

A few minutes’ rest, however, and he recovered, or nearly so. 

‘‘ What was it? what did you feel?” 

** Only a giddiness. 1 suppose it is the sun.” 

“ Jack, 1 am seriously alarmed about you. I shall send my own 
doctor to you this very day. As a favor to myself you must see him. ” 

“ As you please, but I think it is absurd.” 

“ Would you rather have a cab home and not come to Belgrave 
Square?” 

“ On no account! You forget I am to make love to the mamma.” 
Jack said this with quite a gleam of his old humor, but he was glad 
enough of his friend’s arm during the rest of their short walk. 

Horace had promised Lady Susan to look in early, and according- 
ly they found the ladies expecting them. 

A more observant lover might have seen a slight shade cross Lady 
Susan’s white brow on seeing Jack Forbes. But it was only caused 
by the reflection that bringing company — even the fidus Achates — 
hardly looked promising for the hoped for result of the rather point- 
edly arranged visit. 

‘‘Why, my dear Mr. Forbes,” said Lady Caulfield, “ how pale 
you are' Do have a glass of sherry, but, of course, you have 
lunched?” 

This led to a little chat which made poor Jack quite confused at 
the importance he had suddenly acquired, all from feeling slightly 
unwell. It was the charm of this thoroughly good fellow, so solic- 
itous for others never to think himself of any consequence. He de- 
clined the sherry, however, having indeed no inclination for it, but 
presently drank it so that so much trouble might not be thrown away. 
Lady Caulfield soon decided that Jack had never been well since she 
upset him and herself into the water, and, naturally enough, she felt 
a strong interest in his case. 

The quartette spontaneously broke up into a double tete-a-tete, and 


SILYERMEAD. 


114 

Horace galhered himself together for the grand plunge. It was 
more difficult than he thought for. Here was a girl evidently quite 
ready to be proposed to, and a young man who was bent upon ask- 
ing the momentous question, yet, probably from the very cold blood- 
edness of the thing, Horace felt too shy and awkward to put his 
purpose into words. 

There is always something absurd in going through a mere form, 
to any one, at least, with as keen a sense of the ridiculous as had 
our hero. Once or twice he thought he would still put the business 
off, because it might be easier to do by candle light. Then he felt 
ashamed of being deterred by such a trifle as the sun. 

Besides, there was Forbes. Why — what would he say, this candid 
friend Jack, when they got back into the street, on hearing that the 
proposal still hung fire? 

That great resource in Lady Susan’s character, her being a toler- 
able musician, now recurred to Horace’s mind, and he jumped at 
the idea. 

“ Dear Lady Susan,” he said, “ do come and warble to me, noth- 
ing grand or troublesome, but just one of those dreamy soothing 
things I am so fond of.” 

She complied at once, perhaps divining his object, and chose 
that sweet old song: “ Where Shall the Lover Rest?” 

But it certainly did not soothe Horace, though it filled him with 
a sort of desperation which very likely did quite as well. It sent his 
thoughts galloping back to Camilla and his proposal to her. Oh, 
how indescribably different were the two cases! Then his words 
had risen in spite of him. Firmly determined to do nothing of the 
kind, he had not only asked Camilla to be his, but made her the 
most passionate appeal, he knew not how. This time his will was 
resolutely bent to the deed, and yet his lips would not move! 

When the ditty ended, Lady Susan turned her classic head intui- 
tively, and with her old changeless smile, said : 

“ Well?” 

Her wooer started and came back from cloudland with a most 
confused look on his handsome face. To be sure it might mean 
anything, and her ladyship no doubt attributed the strange expres- 
sion to some feeling flattering to herself. 

“ Charming, charming,” he stammered. 

“ I don’t think 1 ever sang you that one before.” 

“ I am quite sure you never did.” 

She continued to go over the air with her right hand. There 
was an awkward pause. 

Presently she said : 

“ 1 hope Mr. Forbes is not really unwell?” 

“ I rather fear he is,” said Horace. “ You remember our boating 
accident— that comic- tragic affair at Massing? He has never been 
well since.” 

Then they went over that exhausted theme again, laughing a lit- 
tle and getting through a certain portion of time, during which they 
were supposed to be flirting. 

Still this was not proposing. 

Even the easy-going Lady Susan began to lose patience, and went 
so far as to ask herself : 


SILYERMEAD. 


115 


“ Can all that papa and mamma have told me have been wrong? 
Is this man not making up to me after all? What is he waiting for? 
Has he not eyes to see?” 

She was very tond of him, certainly, but if he really meant noth- 
ing — oh, it was too absurd! What would the world say? 

And warm as the day was, a cold shiver ran down the poor girl’s 
back. 

“ 1 wish I knew something,” she said to him at last. 

“ Can 1 tell you?” 

“ Yes— and no one' else.” 

* * What is it?” 

He was trying to be very tender. 

“ 1 don’t like to say,” and still she toyed with the keys. “ Guess.” 

“ 1 am so stupid.” 

“ 1 don’t find you so.” 

“ Never?” 

“ No.” 

“ 1 want to know something too.” 

“ If you will tell me yours, I will tell you mine.” 

” Which first?” he asked. 

“ Oh, you begin.” 

“ I thought it was always ladies first ” 

“ Not in these sort of things, not when they elect to be second. 
Come, speak — ” 

” I don’t dare. Let us both speak at once.” 

“ Don’t be so silly.” Presently she changed her mind, saying: 

” 1 don’t mind telling you first.” 

She hung down her head and pursued : 

“ I wonder why you come to see me so often.” 

* ‘ Because it delights me. ’ ’ 

“ Does it?” 

“ Beyond words. Now I’ll put my question, a little altered. Do 
you dislike my coming?” 

“ You know 1 don’t; but why does it delight you?” 

He took her hand off the notes and held it. 

“ Because 1 love you.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ Did you not know it?” 

“ I hoped it.” 

“ An(l will you be my wife?” 

“ Yes!” 

There! It was done! Over! Rather like a surgical operation, 
perhaps; and, had there been a looker-on, somewhat wanting in true 
ring, at least on the part of one of the actors; but, under the circum- 
stances, really the little scene had been very creditably got through. 

The announcement of the carriage came opportunely enough to 
save Horace from any more love-making, just at present. Forbes 
felt better, he said, under Lady Caulfield’s solicitous ministrations, 
and the young men took their leave, not without Horace promising 
to join the ladies at the opera in the evening. 

When the time came, however, the last act of ” Le Roi de La- 
hore” was well on ere he entered their box. Both mother and 
daughter were highly indignant at this seeming negligence, and 


116 


SILYERMEAD. 


were wondering what Horace could possibly urge in excuse for such 
remissness on the very day he had been accepted. The moment he 
appeared, however, their anger died out. He looked so pale and 
grave that they saw at once something very serious had happened. 

He announced to them that his friend Forbes was much worse, in 
fact in a raging fever, already quite delirious, and with two eminent 
doctors attending him. Horace had spent the whole evening at his 
bedside. 

“Dear, dear,” said Lady 'Caulfield, glancing at her daughter’s 
fine form apologetically, “ it seems so selfish to ask, but it is noth- 
ing contagious?” 

“ 1 should say not,” replied Horace, “ at any rate not to the ex- 
tent of my endangering you.” 

“ Oh, but do take care on your own account, Horace,” said Lady 
Susan, asserting for the first time, her new position of a promised 
bride by using his first name alone. 

“ And where is he?” pursued the mamma. 

“ I made him come home to dinner with me. "We were alone. 
He ate next to nothing, and just as 1 was proposing to join you, he 
grew suddenly worse, complained of violent pain in the head, and 
began to shiver. He sent for his doctor, Sir Ewing Crofton, and 1 
for mine. Meanwhile, having plenty of room, 1 insisted on his 
staying in Chapel Street, as 1 thought he would be more comforta- 
ble, and besides, he seemed too bad to be moved needlessly.” 

“ At y our house?” said his fiancee. “ Oh, how very imprudent. 
1 admire you for it, of course, but had you not better yourself go 
elsewhere till we know what is the matter?” 

“ No,” said Horace, simply but firmly. “ 1 haven’t many friends, 
and I intend to stand by Jack and see him through. At the same 
time if you are at all afraid 1 will do myself the cruelty of keeping 
away from your most valued society. ‘ 1 should be miserable to 
cause you any unnecessary alarm. Even now if j t ou fancy there 
is danger — ” 

And he half rose from his seat. However, of course, the ladies 
would not allow him to go. 

When Horace got home an hour later, the doctors had sent in an 
experienced nurse — a woman of mature years, and left word 1 hey 
would return at nine next morning, that no sort of improvement 
could be looked for for some days. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A little more than a week later, Cyril Acton received the follow- 
ing letter from the unhappy girl at Silver mead. Her father chanced 
to be with him when it arrived, but the young tactician slipped the 
missive into his pocket, with one or two others for private perusal, 
that he might deliberate before saying anything about it to his dear 
Cave, who was already standing up to go. 

The latter is radiant to-day, and wears a carnation in his buttou- 
hole. 

“ Well, well, dear boy, 1 must be oft to Newmarket. Think I 
can sho tv my nose at last. Squared most of the implacable ones, 


SILYEFiMEAD. 


117 


thanks to you, and my recent little winnings. There’s the ‘ Beau ’ 
may turn nasty, and little ‘ Hogshead,’ they say, swears he’ll give 
no quarter, but I must risk it; always time to bow myself out if 
needs be.” 

“ But 1 thought you said there was nothing worth backing to- 
day.” 

“ Nor is there, Cyril; no, for once 1 go to Newmarket for other 
game. She is to be there. ’ ’ 

“ She, who? Oh, 1 remember; the new flame you were talking of 
yesterday. A pretty grass widow, you said.” 

“ Pretty, sir! Gad, she’s the finest thing in England! Monstrous 
handsome ’pon my honor she is!” 

“ 1 know, the one you met at an hotel at Scarborough, and who 
wouldn’t speak to you till you got the parson to introduce you.” 

And Acton, who was getting bored, and longing to read! his letters, 
pulled out his watch under the thin pretense of comparing its time 
with that of the clock on the mantelpiece, but really to hurry Mr. 
Harding away. The latter, who had plenty of tact — a small com- 
pensating virtue which often goes with the vice of gambling — here- 
upon withdrew, and Acton, taking the nearest chair, broken open 
the letter with the Silvermead postmark, and read as follows — 

“ My dear Friend, — Whatever my trials, and however disin- 
clined I may be to put peu to paper in anyway, I feel that I have no 
right to defer thanking you for all your trouble, and for the many 
words of true kindness contained in your letter. I do so from the 
bottom of my heart. It is very unlikely that 1 can ever be of use 
or service to you, but if you should some day want a friend, and I 
suppose one never knows in this strange world what may happen, 
you may rely upon me to the last. You will believe this, won’t you? 

“ Why do you call me Miss Camilla? If you write again— and of 
course I know you will, to tell me of my dear father — mind you say 
Camilla tout court, as in the old days. 

“ What a good heart you have! And how feelingly, yet with 
wdiat delicacy, you express your sympathy for poor little me in my 
trials ! I will not afflict you by dwelling on them. 

' ‘ 1 have read all you wrote again and again, although what you 
tell me of him is so difficult to bear — the very worst tidings indeed 
that could reach me. Yes, there is a thing more bitter than losing 
one’s idol, and that is the discovery of its baseness. 

“ You will smile when I tell you something. 1 have heard that 
people in extreme mental anguish— either from unbearable grief, 
long solitary imprisonment, or some other dreadful cause, are sub- 
ject to marvelous fancies; I think you call them hallucinations. I 
read in a book, too, once, that it is an expedient of nature — or rather 
it ought to be called a merciful decree of Providence, I should say 
— to create these self-delusions to prevent our dying, or, worse, go- 
ing out of our minds. Well, do you know, I am in one of those 
states now? With everything to make me wretched I have intervals 
of almost exultation, and do you guess what 1 imagine then? No, 
1 am sure you do not. Oh, it is so curious— like what I should 
think mesmerism must be. It seems even at mid-day all was dark- 
ness round me, but that I had a bright light within, trying to illu- 


118 


SILYERMEAP. 


mine the gloom and mist outside. That all the real circumstances of 
my life were mere phantasmagoria — there is another word that 1 am 
not quite sure is right — my unhappiness, loneliness, loss of his heart, 
my contempt for him, all false and impalpable delusions, while on 
the other hand it appears to me most vividly, both when 1 am awake 
and also duriner the little sleep 1 get, that his love for me which no* 
longer exists, and mine for him, which 1 know must be dead, are 
the only solid realities. I am worrying you with all this nonsense, 
but it is a comfort to write it, and they say the miserable are alwavs 
selfish. 

“ Besides, 1 could tell no one else, I have no girl friend. 1 think 
if 1 had — unless God had given me a sister— it would not help me 
much; and as for dear gran’ma, I am getting so fond of her, you 
would never believe it, she has been so good and tender all through 
this trouble. When 1 try to tell gran’ma about it, 1 cry so it makes- 
her more unhappy than I can bear to see. It is so sad to see a very 
old person cry. They are not so strong as we are to bear things, and 
it always seems as if the little time they had left should be peaceful 
and bright. 1 am crying now, but as she doesn’t see it I don’t 
mind. I feel worse sometimes when I cannot cry. 

“ A hundred loves to dearest papa. You must not show him this 
letter, he would fret so. I am so glad bis affairs are in a better state. 
Say 1 would write under cover to you, but for a promise I have 
made. 

“ Your grateful friend, 

“ Camilla Harding. 

“ P.S. — There is only one thing left that you can do for me. You 
are so good and kind, that 1 am sure God must love you. Pray to 
Him for me. Don’t forget.” 

“Confound it,” muttered Acton, as he crushed the sheet and 
pitched it into his open desk, “she loves the fellow still! Time, 
time alone can change her. I shall write again, in a few days of 
course, another cargo of lies — -I beg my pardon, diplomatic romance, 

I mean — and ad interim I’ll indulge her with a coup de repos. Well, 
there is always compensation for everything. My precious cousin 
is worse I hear. Let me see, how many days has he been ill? 1 
think— yes, five to-day. They don’t seem to know what kind of 
fever it is. Yes, it’s a week to-day since he dined here. Lucky I 
didn’t order much, he couldn’t eat a crumb. Ha! some days yet 
before anything can be known; I mean with comfort. 

“ Well, appearances must be respected in this respectable world 
so I’ll go and inquire how my dear Jack is. Ha, ha! Little Lilia, 
is a truer philosopher than she thinks for. Nothing real but the 
shams! Lord, it’s lucky she don’t believe in those dreams of hers 
though. Pray for you! Yes, my beauty, depend upon it 1 will 
but it shall be to the powers of darkness, that’s all the difference’ 
ha, ha! ” 

“Well, now 1 must compose a countenance and ao round to 
Chapel Street.” 

Brudenell’s tiger opens the door. 

“ How is Mr. Forbes?” 

“ Same, sir,” said the boy, gravely. “ Would you like to step in. 


SILYERMEAD. 


119 


sir?” he volunteered, with the usual inevitable displacement of li’s 
to be found in the domestic wild beast. “ Master is at home, sir, 
he’s in the drawing-room.” 

“ Yes, 1 will come in for a moment.” 

He found Brudenell just returned from a morning ride with his 
betrothed. 

“ Ah, Acton, I’m so sorry never to have been in. You want to 
see your cousin?” 

“ 'Well, just as you think best. If it would be any use, or any 
comfort to him.” 

“ No, poor fellow, when conscious, he is quite torpid. I believe 
now he is asleep, but 1 will ask.” 

“ Do not trouble, pray,” said Acton, sitting down. “ I’ll come 
back before long; and if he would not care to see me — ” 

‘‘ The doctors say the fewer the visitors the better, so if you don’t 
insist — ” 

“By no means. Poor Jack, although he is my second cousin, 
and may possibly one day be my heir, 1 have only known him six 
or seven weeks. Allow me, as one of his few relatives, to thank you 
for all you are doing. There are not many men who would put up 
with all the annoyances of sheltering a sick guest, even in the case 
of a relation. ” 

“ Oh, don’t name it. You are too good. Jack and I were not 
only fast chums at school, but we have been like brothers ever since. 
A dearer, better fellow — ” 

But all at once, and to the speaker’s own intense surprise, he 
found himself obliged to jump up and go to the window. His 
emotion was too much for him. 

“ What cursed fools these feeling people are!” thought, Cyril. 
Then aloud and pleasantly: “ Well, well, let us talk of more cheer- 
ful subjects. 1 hear 1 may congratulate you on your marriage. Is 
that so?” 

“Quite true, 1 am happy to say.” Acton extended his hand 
which the other took rather awkwardly. He had his handkerchief 
still to his face, and was not quite read}’ to turn round. 

“ You will have the handsomest wife in England,” said Cyril, 
with a shake and much show of heartiness. “ 1 wish you joy. ” 

“ Thank you, thank you. Pray sit down again, you are in no 
hurry — will you stop to luncheon?” 

“ Not to-day, thanks, but 1 need not go just yet,” and he resumed 
his seat. 

“Forgive my asking,” said Horace, with a peculiar smile, and 
also taking a chair, “ but — well, if 1 am indiscreet stop me at once 
— may 1 not also congratulate you? Are not you, too, engaged to 
be married?” 

The charge was so sudden, that with all Acton’s practice in con- 
cealing what he felt, a deep blush suffused his cold yet handsome 
countenance. He burst out laughing. 

“ To whom, in the name of wonder?” he asked, really mystified. 

“ Nay, 1 must not say.” 

“ Have you heard so?” 

“ Not exactly.” 

“ Then why—?” 


SILYERMEAD. 


120 

“ Oh, I hacl strong grounds, believe me.” 

“ if you mean that 1 danced too often the other night with Lady 
Florinda Dashmore— ” 

“ No, no, it wasn’t her I meant.” 

“ Then who, by all that is marvelous?” 

“ No, since it is not so, I would not name the lady for worlds; 
and if you really do not know whom 1 mean — ” 

“ No, honor bright, not the wildest notion. Oh, seriously, this is 
not fair to a fellow. 1 think you ought to tell me. ” 

“ I apologize for starting the subject, and quite agree you have a 
right to press for her name. Will you believe me, when I tell you 
it is impossible, under the circumstances, that I can name her? 
Evidently my suspicions were wrong.” 

“ Be it so then. Keep up the enigma. 1 hope at all events she is 
charming.” 

‘ * Most captivating. ’ ’ 

“ And pretty?” 

“ Adorably — at least, I should say so, if not engaged to another,” 
said th q fiance of Lady Susan, correcting himself. 

“ Oh,” went on Cyril, “ Lady Caulfield’s daughter soars serene 
over all rivalry. And wdien is the happy event to come off ?” 

“ Why, very soon indeed, considering, 1 mean, how much long 
engagements seem to be in fashion. We are to be married — if all 
goes well — toward the end of July. ” 

Acton thought there was a strangely false ring in the assumed 
joyfulness with which the man strove to speak of his nuptials, 
ferudenell felt much for the friend lying sick upstairs, no doubt, 
but that was not it. No, clearly he did not love this classic beauty 
he was engaged to. IIo, ho! and why? Was it, then, as Camilla’s 
letter to Horace suggested, that his heart was all hers save for the 
false testimony of his eyes to his dishonor? Yes, here, no doubt, 
was the key to the whole mystery, it was well, Acton thought, 
than chance had taught him liow the land lay. For greater caution 
now became necessary, but Cyril’s caution by no means excluded, 
as we have already seen, the most daring expedients. He rejoiced 
lo-day exceedingly that he had written all that imaginary talk of 
Horace’s to the poor confiding little nymph at Silvermead, for if 
Horace loved her still, even unconsciously, there was always the 
danger of some accident occurring to vindicate Camilla in his eyes, 
and bring the lovers together once more, never again to part. 

The bare thought of such a contingency filled Acton with rage 
and terror, and practiced as he was at concealment, Horace could 
but notice the strange light which darted over his visitor’s face, 
turning his eyes almost green for a second or two, at the end of the 
very brief pause, and during which all the above reflections lushed 
through the impostor’s brain — for he was eminently a rapid thinker. 
Meanwhile, the host had been folding up and directing two or three 
previously written notes. Merely for something to say, he asked 
Acton, as he set the superscription to the last: 

“ Do you know old Sir Ewing Crofton?” 

“ Eh?” replied the other, not. without a slight start. 

” He is attending poor Forbes.” 


SILYEKMEAD. 121 

“ Oh, yes, he is our family physician,” but llie moment the words 
were uttered he regretted them. 

It has been said that this double-dealer was skillful in hiding his 
real impressions, and so he was for the most part. But men do not 
become Talley rands by tliree-and-twenty except in books, 

“ Indeed!” said Horace. “ Ah, that accounts for it.” 

“ I don’t quite understand.” 

“ 1 mean that doctors generally go in families. I have heard Jack 
say Sir Ewing had always attended his people, and they very prob- 
ably originally consulted him at Lord Hammersley’s recommenda- 
tion.” 

“ Ah, very likely. 1 have never been ill myself, and do not even 
known him by sight.” 

“ He has been here once to-day, but 1 have just asked him to call 
again; the nurse whom Sir Ewing sent in seems a very experienced 
woman, and she reports unfavorable symptoms since the last two 
hours.” 

“ I am very sorry to hear that.” 

“ 1 will send this at once,” said Horace, ringing the bell. “ It is 
close by, and I believe the great man is at home, so we may expect 
him immediately. ” 

Acton’s impulse was to jump up, and hasten off, but he repressed 
it. He had very good reasons of his own for not caring to meet Sir 
Ewing, but there must be at any rate two or three minutes to spare. 

The note dispatched, he leisurely rose, and pleading the appoint- 
ment which he said had obliged him to decline stopping to luncheon, 
quietly took his leave. 

“ Well, I’ve learned a thing or two by that move,” he reflected, 
as he strolled down Bark Lane, merely for a saunter. “ The plot 
thickens, upon my word. However, I’m not going to worry myself 
with possibilities. A man can but play his cards to the best of his 
ability, as old Harding would say.” And he proceeded to review 
his position in all its complex bearings by the new lights which his 
interview with Brudenell had shed upon it. 

That meeting had set the latter thinking too. Ever since he had 
watched Acton’s eyes when they rested upon Camilla’s, and been 
jealous of him at the Hasham ball, he never till now dreamt of her 
„ having betrayed him for any one else. 

But if Acton was really not engaged to anybody, what could it all 
mean? Could it be that they were lovers who did not want to be 
married? Such things have happened, and the slimy-tongued Miss 
Lafflncli had ninted that, but Horace scouted the idea of this being 
any case of the kind. 

Miss Harding must at any rate have wanted Horace to marry her, 
or why had she encouraged and accepted him? 

Was there all this time a third lover in the case, of whom he had 
hitherto heard nothing— only seen for that brief moment in his false 
one’s arms? 

“ Except at the ball,” Horace told himself, “1 have somehow 
never detested this young Acton as a rival; on the contrary, 1 haver 
so far rather liked him, and albeit, he has not a good countenance, 
1 am fond of men who have like him a head upon their shouldeis. 

“ He was there though that night. The chestnut hack is always 
proof of his presence. Still he may have been only helping a 


122 


SILVERMEAD. 


friend, but who, in the wide w^orld, could that friend be, -whom 
Acton, loving her himself, as 1 am almost sure he did, would yet 
throw, so to speak, into her very arms, while he stood calmly by, or 
at all events kept watch in the neighborhood? Adam the clod- 
hopper had sworn there were ‘ two on ’em. ’ 

“ No, it is all very strange — mysterious to a degree. 

“ After all, what matters it to me? There was someone in her 
arms, and that is enough. Am I not engaged to another?” And 
here he pitched down a pen he had been abruptly biting, thrust his 
hands into his pockets and strode excitedly about the room. 

Finding himself at the window he saw that the great physician’s 
brougham and pair had drawn up to the door — he knew not how 
Ions 1 before, his meditations had been too engrossing for him to 
notice its arrival. Horace had given orders that Sir Ewing Crofton 
should be shown at once to the sick man’s room, but with a request 
that he would speak to Horace on his way down. 

The equipage had that unmistakable air of all doctor’s carriages 
and studs. Dingy yet respectable, hard-worked yet of the best. 
This individual M.D. kept three such turn-outs, and all had the 
same much used look. It is only when medical men handle the 
reins themselves that their vehicular appointments ever assume any- 
thing of the really luxurious or fashionable. The poet tells us that: 

“ Things are not what they seem,” 

but, a man’s profession has a marvelous talent for not being re- 
pressed either in himself or his belongings. To take only one in- 
stance, how very rare is it to see an author whose hair is short and 
neat, and whose severe yet faultless attire and bearing might get 
him mistaken for say, an idle Guardsman; and this often in sheer 
despite of considerable determination, and pretty constant effort on 
such author’s part to screen what he is not! 

Sir Ewing Crofton, Bart., M.D., has no wish to disguise his 
calling. He is far too justly proud of being what he is. "Without 
knocking at the door — Sir Ewing has great respect for even two 
seconds of time — he now joins Brudenell, who says: 

“ How good of you to come; will — ” 

“ I am glad I was sent for, a change of treatment was required.” 

“ He is worse then?” 

“ N — no, but there are complications; as 1 have told you the case 
is serious, not desperate. I have only time now to say that if Mr. 
Forbes has any relations they ought to be sent for. ” . 

“ His parents have long been dead, and strange to say the only re- 
lative I know of has but just left this room— Cyril Acton, Lord 
Hammersley’s son.” 

“ Ha! he would be a cousin. Yes. The Hammersleys were 
formerly friends and patients of mine.” 

” So lie was saying.” 

“Acs, yes, sad history! of course you know. Ay, ay, Cyril, so it 
was.” 

“ All before my time, Sir Ewing, I know nothing.” 

“Ah, indeed, oh, most painful. However, we’ll talk of that 
when 1 have more leisure. Just tell me, is he quite an object?” 

*' An object?” 


SILVEKMEAD. 


123 


Well, a cripple is always more or less — ” 

“ A cripple — ” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that this young man is not a — ” 

“ My clear Sir Ewing, there is some mistake; Cyril Acton is re- 
markably handsome, taller than either of us, and as straight as a 
die!” 

“ But 1 tell you Cyril was born a hopeless cripple, and must ever 
have remained so. 1 teared also that he would turn out an idiot.” 

“ Well, my friend Acton is not that at any rate!” 

And Horace could not restrain a laugh at the incongruity of the 
idea. 

“ At any. rate I can’t keep people dying without me while we dis- 
cuss the point,” said the doctor, also laughing. “ I’ve got all the 
facts down in my note-books, and shall certainly look them up. 
But now good-by. ” 

< And so saying he ran nimbly down to his brougham, despite his 
sixty-live winters; and the quiet lean pair of horses rattled him oft’ 
at a pace only limited by regard for the safety of others and police 
regulations against furious driving. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Jack Forbes’ illness turned out to be a bad case of rheumatic 
fever, attributable directly to the length of time he had been in that 
lake on the day of the accident, and to the neglect of proper reme- 
dial measures immediately afterward. Had he lost not a moment 
in putting on dry things, partaken of a moderate portion of those 
hot spirits and water ot which so superfluous a quantity was poured 
down the most noble throat of his illustrious co-sufterer, and had he 
then run half a mile in the sun, until a thorough reaction had set in, 
it is probable that no serious consequences, to what he contemptu- 
ously termed a mere ducking, would have followed that really 
laughable adventure. 

However, although he was severely punished for his imprudence, 
he now found himself in the very best of hands — surrounded indeed 
with everything that can mitigate a severe attack of illness, both as 
regards professional sKill, and material comfort; as also in respect 
of his best and oldest friend’s brotherly affection and fostering care. 

After the first day the case had been left entirety in the hands of 
Sir Ew r ing Crofton, the other eminent M. D. whom Brudenell had 
called in, declaring that except in the event of a consultation be- 
coming necessary, his services would not be further required. 

To mil who are in any way acquainted with rheumatic fever, it is 
unnecessary to explain how terribly painful a disease it is. How 
the slightest movement becomes exquisite agony, and how essential 
is the most skillful nursing that can be procured. 

A somewhat uncommon feature of the malady was often present, 
from the very first night, in Forbes’ case, and this was prolonged 
and violent fits of delirium. Fortunately, there never was any one 
more utterly without secrets than our friend Jack, but of this Sir 
Ewing could know nothing, and he was bound — since he had it in 
his power— to place by his bed-side a thoroughly confidential person. 
Fortune, while hitting her hardest blows, yet constantly and pro- 


124 


SILVERMEAD. 


verbially selects just such moments for flinging to us some compen- 
sating favor; and now when she had prostrated this good youth 
upon a bed of racking pain, what does she do but send him as nurse, 
under the visible providence of Sir Ewing, the very woman who had 
tended and weaned him as an infant. Her own baby — she never 
had but one — died at a few weeks’ old, and being endowed with 
strong maternal feelings, she adopted, so far as the affections ■went, 
the babe she was hired to nurse in lieu of Ihe one she had lost. For 
some years, little Jack was the light of her eyes, and repaid her as 
a gratefully disposed little being with a tender gentle nature knows 
so well how to do. Then both Jack’s parents died at no very long in- 
terval from each other ; the child became, as we have seen, the ward of 
his cousin, Lord Hammersley, and the latter being nearly always 
across the main, and the child an orphan, he was sent early to a pre- 
paratory school; thence in due course to Harrow, and, little by little, 
communication between nurse and child languished, until, as such 
intercourse nearly always does, it died a natural death, and now for 
a dozen years or more, neitlier had heard, though both thought 
kindly of the other. 

“ And so you have got back an old favorite of years ago, eh, Mrs. 
Barrow?” said Sir Ewing Crofton, one day, as the patient lay 
drowsily resting after a delirious night. 

“ Lor’ bless ’im!” piously ejaculated the nurse; and of all I 
ever tended, the only one 1 ever loved ; and to get him back in such 
a state,” she added, bending over the invalid as if he were her own 
offspring, and smoothing his hair and pillow. “ But you will save 
him, sir, won’t you?” 

“ 1 hope so, nurse, indeed, but his life is quite as much in your 
hands as my own. It is to the great importance of detail, of nursing, 
in fact, that you owe this chance meeting with him again. You 
know how often you have won my good opinion. " All 1 have to im- 
press upon you now is not to be over anxious. That is •why rela- 
tions are so often bad nurses in dangerous cases. They either lose 
their heads, or else knock up.” 

Mrs. Barrow, as we see, was an old and trusted employee of the 
great M.D., her only drawback being that she rather presumed upon 
this to indulge at times in an amount of garrulity which it pained his 
good heart to cut short ; yet which, if he listened to, would appar- 
ent ly never end. 

On this occasion he was waited for by nothing but his luncheon, 
and so he was fain to bear with her a little. 

“ Oh, doctor,” she went on, “ he was the sweetest tempered babe, 
the most affectionate child as ever cut teeth. You see that scar over 
his left temple? Many’s the time I’ve kissed that place. His- poor 
dear mother, sir, was sickening for her last illness, though sitting up 
by the drawing-room fire, and she was trying to get a little sleep. 
Little Jacky, as we called him then, was playing about the room, and 
howbeit not a noisy boy, 1 saw he disturbed tlie good lady sadly. 
Well, I’d told him twice or over to be quiet, but still he would keep 
restless like, and now and again ‘ bang ’ over would go a chair, or 
down fall a book, and such like. Now seeing this and finding as 
the poor lady could get no rest for him, I catches the little fellow 
up and tries to explain the case to him ; mark, sir, he was scarce 


SILYERMEAD. 


125 


four years old that time. Well, his little face gets as serious as seri- 
ous, and he watched his mamma all the time 1 was talking and he 
sucking the forefinger of his left hand — most children sucks their 
right, but one’s no better than the other for that, and then he puts 
his little fat arms round my neck, — you wouldn’t think he’d been 
a chubby child to see him lyin’ there to-day, would you, sir? and 
he says, ‘ Nanny, Nanny,’ he says, whisperin’ as hard as ever he 
could, that 1 was ready to die, not laughin’ out. ‘ Nanny, me go 
play staircase?’ So 1 kisses him back and bundles him out toys and 
all. You see he were ’customed like to play alone on them ‘ stairs * 
as he called them, not but what 1 never thinks the thickest carpeted 
as these was, is safe for children, but his papa choosed to let him, so 
hinder him I couldn’t. Sure enough he hadn’t been there ten min- 
utes, as still as any mouse, when I heard a noise like a fall, a great 
thump like, but never a cry. I was out in no time, and never a 
doubt but he slipped and fell and cut his head open awful ’gen’ the 
wheel of his go-cart, as it’s a sin and a shame as the toyshops is al- 
lowed to cover with tin, I say. 

“ Well, I picks him up and I was frightened out of my wits, and 
1 stops the blood as well as I can, but the brave little man whatever 
do you think is all he says? Why, ‘ Hush, Nanny, poor mamma 
sleep.’ Yes, sir, sure as if 1 was to be struck dead this minute, not 
a word else. ‘ Hush, Nanny, poor mamma sleep.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Ewing, quite interested in this graphic recital, 
“ 1 can easily believe every word you tell me. I knew both the par- 
ents intimately, and a kinder or happier couple never lived. Do 
you know, Mrs. Barrow, that every day confirms my belief in the 
fact that goodness of heart is at least as hereditary as heart disease; 
1 mean that parents transmit their moral qualities to the children 
equally with their bodily ones.” 

“ Well, doctor, of course you know.” 

‘ ‘ If your patient pulls through 1 feel sure you will have a grate- 
ful nature to deal with. 1 suppose he has not yet recognized 
you.” 

“ Oh, bless you, doctor, no, sir, and I thought him too ill to put 
questions to. ” 

“ You did right. Even agreeable excitements must be avoided. 
See, our long talk appears to make him restless', despite our profes- 
sional sick room voices.” 

And so saying, the kindly Sir Ewing betook him contentedly to 
his tepid luncheon. 

It was precisely during the above conversation that Brudenell rode 
up to speak to Cyril Acton who was leaning over the rails in Rotten 
Row. 

“ Ah, Acton,” said the former, bending from his saddle to shake 
hands,, “how are you ? ” 

“ All right, thanks. How is Jack?” 

“ Well, he doesn’t get on as we could wish.” 

“ No, I was sorry to receive a bad report when I sent my man 
round last night to inquire.” 

“ By-the-bye, talking of him reminds me. A very old friend of 
your family is most anxious to meet yoy.” 

“Ah!” replied Acton absently, for his gaze was just then follow- 
ing a yellow haired syren with a graceful seat. 


126 


SILVEKMEAD. 


“ Deuced smart girl that!— know who she is?” 

Thus appealed to Horace turned in the indicated direction. 

“ Not t Nothing much 1 should say. But you won’t guess 
who the old friend is?” 

“My dear Brudenell, it is too hot for guessing riddles — I even 
wonder you care to get on a horse. W ell, who is he that craves the 
honor of seeing me?” 

“ Sir Ewing Crofton.” 

Acton grew livid, to the great surprise of Horace, who was look- 
ing straight at him, and who vainly asked himself what it meant. 

“ Yes, it is confoundedly hot!” was all Acton said, and lifting 
his hat from his brow he made a great parade of wiping his face. 
Not but what he was far' too sharp not to see that his sudden pallor 
had been observed, or to imagine this shallow subterfuge would de- 
ceive Horace. But one must do something —for even doing nothing 
is in a sense doing something— at every juncture, and when there is 
nothing really good to be done, why one must do as one can. Hor- 
ace, who had naturally no suspicion of the truth — and the other’s 
sudden emotion never made him dream of there being any hidden 
infamy in the matter— Horace went on chiefly to break the silence: 

“ He seems — Sir Ewing — to mix you up somehow or other with 
your brother who died a few years back.” 

Acton had resumed his hat and with it his habitual cool aspect 
and manner. 

“ Ah! I daresay. Oh, I have often heard my people talk of him. 
Tell the old gentleman 1 shall be very glad, charmed, to meet him, I 
am sure I say, here comes my Amazon again.” 

Horace heeded not this last remark, but continued: 

“ Well, when shall it be? You can’t think what a point he made 
of it. He said he had reasons. On more than one occasion he has 
renewed the subject.” 

“Now that is very good of him. Well, let me see, oh, any 
day. ” 

“ Any day is no day,” said Brudenell, smiling. 

“ To-morrow? No, to-morrow 1 can't. Next day 1 run down to 
the Isle of Wight for a week, but, yes, say Thursday week, at any 
time he likes. Where shall it be?” 

“ Well, he is the busier man. I will drop you a line; and now 
I’ll go on, for, as you see, my nag hates standing.” 

No sooner had he ridden off than Acton, quitting the crowded 
walk, struck across the Park, to where, even in the season’s height, 
the passers over the expanse of grass interfere but little with its soli- 
tude. 

“ Sir Ewing? the devil !” was his first mental ejaculation. “ Con- 
found his long memory! Of course he has always been my rock 
ahead, my most dreaded source of danger. I had hoped that after 
so many, many years— yes, it is nearly a quarter of a centuiy — that 
he would have forgotten, or that the facts might be sufficiently 
blurred in his mind to have lost their vividness and interest. Now, 
let me resume the main facts as calmly as I may. 

“ Some two and twenty years ago, when I was three years old. Sir 
Ewing Crofton was in constant attendance upon my mother as phy- 
sician. At that time my late brother was born. The specialist who 


SILYERMEAD. 


127 

was called in on that occasion is, fortunately, dead. Sir Ewing 
then knew me by my real name of Lucius, if any. Now my broth- 
er, the true Cyril, being born a cripple, was, from a medical point 
ot view, a far more interesting subject than myself, and as 1 believe 
all these great doctors keep diaries, or at least case-books, as 1 
fancy 1 have heard them called, no doubt my brother figures con- 
spicuously in the records kept by Sir Ewing, or else why are the facts, 
so fresh in his recollection, and why is lie dying to see me? 

“ Well, seventeen years pass by, and then Cyril— Lucius, as the 
world believes —dies. Accordingly, Sir Ewing expects to find in 
me a lad of twenty-two, bearing unmistakable signs of having come 
into existence as a rickety imperfect being, for the case was pro- 
nounced from the first a hopeless one. 

“ Now, either this M.D. has heard that 1 am rather a fine speci- 
men of humanity, or, worse still, I may have been somewhere un- 
consciously pointed out to him. If 1 meet him as proposed, I am 
ruined, for he says : 

“ ‘ How is this? No cripple infant, like the one I knew, could 
ever develop into what you are. You must be the fine little boy of 
three whom 1 also remember, and who, owing to the flaw in your 
parents’ first marriage, could never succeed to the title. You, there- 
fore, are Lucius, and my patient here, Mr. John Forbes, is heir 
presumptive to Lord Ilammersley and not you, as the 4 Peerage ’ 
ignorantly states. There has been some juggling here.’ Such a 
charge coming from such a source would be utterly unanswerable. 
1 might swear ignorance, and thus escape personal blame, but my 
undoing would yet be complete, and the disgrace of my father and 
mother" being prosecuted for fraud would cast the full shade of its 
ignominy on mj'self. 

“ What is to be done? It is of little use to be clever as Lucifer 
when no good move exists! 1 am clever, thank my stars, and I know 
it. No time is to be lost. 

“ That improvised journey to Cowes was very ready. Let me see, 
let me see! Shall 1 really go there or somewhere else? The great 
point is to get away. Sir Ewing must be growing old. He may 
forget the whole matter if he does not see or hear of me, or at least, 
he may gradually so far lose interest in the strange romance in real 
life as to cease endeavoring to sift it to the bottom. 

“ I’ll go down to the Isle of Wight to-morrow, and gain breathing 
time. 1 must have a space to think, and that while 1 think myself 
safe. Will it end in Canada? Perhaps so, but then, how about 
Camilla? Camilla, that I have piomised myself— whom I have 
sworn shall be mine? 

“ Weird fascination! Until 1 saw her but a few weeks ago, I 
should have laughed to scorn whoever told me I could care for any 
woman. For woman in general, yes — for individual woman, no. 1 
always loved beauty — who but fools do not? But I cared no more 
for the particular owners of it Ilian does the fruit plucker trouble 
his head as to which tree he culls from, so only that the blushing 
prizes be faiv and luscious. 

“ Yet now 1 know also too w’ell, that for this girl I am capable of 
any weakness, any rashness, even of playing life’s game in so warped 


SILVERMEAD. 


128 

and unwise a manner as to compromise my very identity, my birth* 
right. 

“ Oh, ambition! Jealous, beloved ambition, you who tolerate no 
rivalr} r , the one saint 1 ever bend me to invoke, come now to my 
aid!” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

It is June. The month of joy if such the year possesses. 

Through all the charm of spring there lurks the trace of effort, 
Nature labors, but with summer’s first real month comes the sense 
of achievement, the sweet repose of victory. 

It is June at Silvermead. At lovely, stately Silvermead, where 
that leafy month is wont to be so proud of itself. 

But this year sorrow well-nigh unbearable forbids Camilla Hard- 
ing to revel in — almost to see its gladsome pageantry, or even to 
taste its perfumed breath. 

Yet she was framed, so to speak, for joy. If ever woman seemed 
to have the attributes of a sunbeam it was she. 

Happy herself, to shed her rays on those around was the original 
aim with which she had been sent among us dull, suffering children 
of Adam. 

But sin had spoiled this holy and beneficent destiny — sin that 
mars all things. Had Cave Harding possessed a conscience lie would 
not have sunk to a course which ended in compelling him to seek 
his poor child like a thief in the night. Had Acton not been an 
utter scoundrel, Horace Brudenell would have received that second 
letter from Camilla, and all had been well. 

Our poor little heroine was not a very good one at bearing sor- 
rows. 1 do not mean morally but physically. With all her fondness 
for pleasure and filial indulgence she was "a holy little thing, much 
more so indeed than she herself dreamt of. Always addicted to the 
exercises of religion, she had become of late so devoted to prayer, 
that often, after long periods spent on her knees, she would rise up 
with only the vaguest idea of the time thus employed. Hope, as far 
as this world was concerned, was dead within her, and inevitably 
her health gave way. When the sanguine have nothing left to hope 
for, they fade slowly and die. This it was that was killing her. 

There are those who seem to have a special capacity for suffering. 
I do not mean those grumbling persons of whom it has been wittily 
said that they are never happy unless miserable: but I allude to such 
as would very loudly pronounce for happiness if they could get it, 
but who, finding that sorrow is their portion here below, bow so 
cheerfully to their lot, accept a life-long divorce from joy with either 
so much Christian resignation or so much philosophy that they are 
enabled to bear their cross to extreme old age. 

The very opposite of this type was Camilla. She had believed in, 
fancied she had found, and then prayed hard to secure happi- 
ness ; but now she had lost it, and though, as we have seen, she 
dearly loved her father, yet that affection'alone no longer made her 
care to live. 

Perhaps she felt very palpably that death was laying its hand on 
her. 


SILYERMEAD. 


129 

All this may seem unnatural in a girl who two months ago was 
full of health and strength, of youth and hope; in many cases it 
would be so, but Camilla was an exceptional girl. 

It were almost impossible to define the depth of her love. Horace 
was all very well for an average young man: put the degree to 
which a woman loves has little or nothing to do with the object who 
inspires her devotion, however much she may fancy he has. 

Had Camilla never met her Horace, she would no doubt have en- 
countered, loved, and wedded someone else. All the immensity of 
her love for him came out of the greatness and depth of her own 
pure soul. 

It is a great mistake to imagine that holy and intensely refined 
natures cannot love violently — fatally. On the contrary they are 
the only consummate, the true masters of loving. 

Camilla knew now that she could never love again, worse than 
this, she knew she could never love Horace: 

It was the very nobility of her nature that prevented her from 
ever dreaming that Acton had read or suppressed her letters; and 
still less, if less be conceivable, that his graphic account of his con- 
versation with Horace was but a heartless forgery. 

Buch diabolical actions were quite beyond the furthest horizon of 
her ideas of evil. Accordingly she could but tell herself, with pas- 
sionate shame, nay rage, that Horace was neither a lover, gentle- 
man, nor man. A far less proud girl would have done as she did, 
torn him contemptuously from her breast; but when Camilla had 
accomplished this act, she found she had torn her own heart out too. 
Her young love had taken too deep root. 

And then she knew that she must die! 

Probably none of us can taste the very dregs of wretchedness 
without visions more or less distinct of self-destruction flitting 
through our minds; but though Camilla feared at first she might 
have sore temptation on this score, it was not long before the hide- 
ous specter was laid to rise no more. 

The reasons of this are twofold. 

She had too much faith ! 

She felt her natural end so near! 

But although she was dying literally of a broken heart, it must 
not be supposed that her sufferings were to compare to what they 
would have been, if, say, she had known even a part of the truth 
without the power of communicating it to Brudenell. 

If he had already married Lady Susan, and she had then learnt 
how matters really stood, lliere can be little doubt but what her lot 
had been more fulT of sharp thorns, although perhaps less bitter in 
that she could also love him. 

But in such a case, each day of her life must have been fraught 
with most racking and exhaustive paroxysms of wildest hopes and 
fears, and her love, put back once more in her heart, had burnt there 
like red hot iron. 

Even then it is true nothing criminal would have entered her mind 
— no, not so much as in the form of a vague temptation— crime and 
Camilla were not made for one another, or rather she would always 
have preferred anj r amount of self-sacrifice, to staining her pure soul 
■with grievous sin. All the s. me she would soon have worn herself to 

5 


130 


SILVERMEAD. 


death by the violence of her emotion, and notably by her execration 
of the perfidy, the unspeakable blackness of her false friend Cyril 
Acton. 

As it was she only felt herself each day becoming more numbed. 
She was perishing as it were less from feeling than the want of it,, 
and had settled down half voluntarily into a peaceful and monoto- 
nous state of ossification. Her laugh was never heard, and her former 
capricious temper entirely gone. She had become a woman but to 
die, all trace of the child was gone for ever. Still she talked, but 
what changed talk!. The newspapers and magazines were read by 
her with great thoroughness and few distractions, and the driest 
facts of politics, art, and even science, were subjects of her lengthy 
and apparently interested discourse with the few whom in the de- 
serted country side she could find to listen to her. The explanation 
to this was not difficult to seek. 

“ Why,’’ she asked herself, “ should 1 inflict my indifference to 
all things upon those who have done me no wrong?” 

And as it was as easy to get up a fictitious interest for one thing- 
as another, she selected at random- the first that came to hand, often 
to the great suprise of the uninitiated. 

Lady Prendergast alone read the ghastly riddle aright. W e liave- 
seen how great was the maternal love, but that it always failed to 
bend her when brought into conflict with determination to stand be- 
tween Camilla and Cave Harding. To her uncompromising mind 
this attitude was the strongest expression of her love. The more she 
lold herself how much she idolized her grandchild, so in exact pro- 
portion she felt she must diligently save her from her prodigal 
parent. 

Doubtless she was honest in her belief, but doubtless also her feel- 
ings toward her son-in-law included a liberal surplus of resentment 
on his own account, which to her conscience, this well meaning 
•woman lumped in, as it were, with the former motive almost with- 
out knowing it. 

For which of us are without tremendous prejudices, and which 
of us will own to being prejudiced at fill. 

But what love could not do in this particular instance, pity 7 ' and 
terror had gone far to accomplish. 

Little Dr. McFinn, who, like so many men, was no fool in his 
profession, although a considerable one out of it, had first to be 
consulted, and he at once privately assured the old lady that he 
considered the case very grave; at the same time candidly confessed 
himself puzzled as to diagnosis and consequently as to treatment. 

He tried tonics with no effect, and thereupon urged Lady Pren- 
dergast to procure other advice from Birmingham or London. She 
did both, and a consultation was held at Silvermead much against 
Camilla’s wishes. 

Strange as it may seem her sense of humor was not a little tickled 
by these grave men gravely arguing on the possibility of effecting 
the impossible. 

“There was depression,” they said, “great depression of the 
whole system, especially the nervous system.” They inquired 
whether the interesting invalid was suffering from any recent shock 


SILYEK3IEAD. 131 

■grief or trouble, and on being candidly informed that she was, the 
learned men looked triumphant, and said it was that. 

Perhaps it was scarcely necessary to be an eminent medical man 
with no end of initials after his name to guess so much! 

The great Londoner inquired what the treatment had hitherto 
been, and on hearing that it was tonics said that then no tonics 
should be given in future. lie by no means wished to insinuate, he 
added, that his friend Dr. McFinn had been iniudieious in prescrib- 
ing them, but for the present, at any rate, they should be stopped. 
After this dictum, the other saving light deemed it imperative for 
the honor of Birmingham to say something, but it was not so easy. 

Presently, however, he asked whether the young lady had not 
been long resident at Silvermead, and on being told that she had 
lived there for the last twelve months, he delivered himself of the 
deep conviction than an immediate change of air would do no harm 
and might possibly do good. He was so delighted at finding this to 
say, and also that neither of his colleagues had happened to say it 
first, that he quite brightened up, and took to rubbing his hands. 

Yet they were clever men all three, and if they played the un- 
grateful part of wiseacres on this occasion, it is only the fate of 
all who are highly paid for fulfilling formalities on the strength of 
their well-earned reputation, when there is really nothing to be done. 

They had the true doctor’s eye and doctor’s instinct, even if the 
case baffled their technical skill, and they informed Lady Prender- 
gast, after Camilla left the room, that they feared the state of the 
young patient was a very grave one. 

After that the two celebrated 'confreres withdrew with becoming 
professional gloom, each a richer man by fifty pounds, minus his 
railway fare. 

The fond grandmother felt that modicum of comfort which 
springs from a sense of having done the best in oue’s power; and 
that was all she had to counterbalance her great alarm, her absorb- 
ing grief. 

Was she then to behold this bright child of promise, this one 
earthly thing she loved, fade and die in her early bloom, and sink 
before her into a premature grave? 

From the first this valiant old woman had smarted under the sense 
of insult as indignantly as any young soldier sensitively jealous of 
his honor. 

Just as Camilla had herself not bowed to her doom without mak- 
ing a desperate effort to right her destinies, so also Lady Prender- 
gast, on seeing how threatening were the effects of suffering on her 
beloved child, indulged in the wildest schemes for snatching her 
from the advancing hand of Death. Vague and impracticable as 
these schemes at first were, they gradually acquired shape and con- 
sistency in the yet vigorous old dame, and she rightly judged that if 
any heroic measure was to be adopted, it lay in the direction of Sir 
Howard Brudenell, and she at length determined to write to him. 
This step being decided, she took a full week carefully to deliberate 
upon its exact purport and expression. 

When completed, it covered two sheets of closely written letter 
paper — the old letter paper nearly square, which Lady Prendergast 
still affected on all important occasions. 


132 


SILYERMEAD. 


This missive, ponderously sealed, was actually in the post- box 
of the great hall, when a visit from Miss Laffinch, whom the D& 
Basies liad at length summoned courage to congedier after positively 
drawing lots with each other as to who was to take the female bull 
by the horns — a visit from the venomous one announced to her the 
fact, for once true, that Horace’s marriage with Lady Susan Graye 
was publicly given out, and would certainly be in the Morning Post 
the following day. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

“ Only fancy,” said Miss Laffinch, “ your not having heard it, 
my dear. The know-notliingness of the country does strike one so- 
on coming fresh from London. Oh, town is delightful, simply de- 
lightful.” 

“ Ah, 1 heard the season was proving very gay.” 

“ A carnival — a real carnival. 1 could hardly tear myself away. 
The dear De Basies, they implored me to remain; but, 1 had only 
been asked for a week, and I allowed myself to be pressed for 
another — but, delicacy, you know — delicacy.” 

“ Of course,” said the hostess, dryly, for she knew Miss Laffincli 
well. 

“ Dear Sir Howard is delighted — quite radiant, you would think 
it was his own marriage. 1 told him, oh, 1 told him he ought to fol- 
low his nephew’s example, and marry himself, hee, hee, liee!” 

“ I — 1 will tell my granddaughter you are here, excuse me a mo- 
ment,” said Lady Prendergast, rising and leaving the room. As sh& 
knew nothing of Camilla’s secret correspondence with Acton, she 
little dreamed that this news of the false one’s betrothal was already 
quite old to the girl; and she dreaded her hearing it suddenly from 
Miss Laffinch, as she might do, should she chance to enter the draw- 
ing-room during her visit. The old lady found Camilla lying on the 
sofa in her little boudoir, and reading one of her favorite dry books. 

Lady Prendergast had deemed it best not to inform her of the let- 
ter she had so laboriously penned to Sir Howard, and which was 
now in her pocket, she having taken it from the post- box on her 
j>assage through the hall. 

‘‘Miss Laffinch is here,” she began, ‘‘if you think her gossip 
would amuse you, perhaps you would like to come down.” 

‘‘ You know, gran’ma dear, I do not like her.” 

“ Well, as to that, who does? But you see too few people; Dr. 
McFinn says so. ’ ' 

“ If you would like me to come down 1 will certainly,” and she 
prepared to rise. 

‘ ‘ One moment, ” said the old lady, herself sitting down. ‘‘My 
chief object in coming up was to tell you that Miss Laffinch arrives 
from London and — ” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“ And professes to bring a piece of news which — ” 

‘‘ Yes, gran’ma.” 

“ Which I fear might agitate and afflict you; and which I was 
determined should at all events be broken to you gently.” 


SILVER}! E AD. 


133 


“ 1 know, clear; you mean Mr. Brudenell’s marriage.” 

“ His announced engagement, yes; but how did you know?” 

“ There is no mystery in that,” said Camilla, with a calm smite; 
‘ ‘ 1 saw it in the Morning Post to-day. 1 thought you always read 
the gay news so carefully.” 

“1—1 was unusually busy,” replied the old lady, slightly con- 
fused at the thought of her now wasted letter. “ I trust, darling, it 
has not upset you sadly — made you worse?” 

“ Gran’ma,” said the girl, putting her feet to the ground and sit- 
ting up, “ why will you not believe what I tell you so often? 1 have 
ceased to care what Mr. Brudenell does, for 1 have ceased to love 
him.” 

“ Then why are you ill?” 

“If I am ill it is because he has proved himself so utterly un- 
worthy; but, since he has done so, if 1 have any feeling for him at 
all, it is one of supreme contempt. Were 1 to meet him it would be 
with no other emotion.” 

“ Yet you say } r ou will never love again.” 

“ 1 never can.” 

“ But why, if — ?” 

“ I could not tell you, I do not know, 1 only feel that 1 am like 
that. Still 1 am sorry for this news, but only on account of the 
woman he marries. I have seen enough of Lady Susan to be fond 
of her in a way, and 1 feel convinced she will be miserable— for he 
is a villain.” 

This -was spoken with unwonted animation/ and a faint flush 
mounted to the pall'd brow. 

“ ‘ Villain ’ is a strong term.” 

“ Not too strong. He is marrying her for her money, and she does 
not know it. Oh, it would be a charity to tell her!” 

“ My child, what a wild thought; may he not admire her? She is 
very beautiful. ” 

“No, no, it is not that!” said the girl, almost passionately. She 
was all this time looking straight before her, as if she saw things 
that were happening far away. 

“ But why not?” asked her ladyship. 

“No, gran’ma; because he admires me.” 

There was such an utter absence of vanity or satisfaction in the 
way poor Camilla said this, that her listener had no inclination to 
smile. 

“ Oh, he is not stupid at all,” pursued the girl; “ a clumsy man 
would have written, called, said a hundred things, which, however 
carefully worded, would only have come to this — 

“ ‘ 1 find I can do better for myself, so I break with you.’ Mr. 
Brudenell has at least the sense to spare us the mockery of polita 
forms, of false regrets. He says nothing, but expresses what he 
means in pantomime. He acts out his part, and marries Lord Caul- 
field’s heiress.” 

It was a relief to the aged woman to see Camilla throw off her 
languor, her stolidity for once, even although it was but loo patent 
how morbid the brightness, how evanescent the spark of interest and 
animation which this talk about Brudenell’s marriage had galvan- 
ized her into. 


SILYERMEAD. 


134 

The two now joined the old maid dowm-stairs. The girl knew 
Miss Laffincli to be one of the happily few who rather hate every 
one in the world more or less, and honor a large number with a 
special hatred. 

Miss Harding was rather proud of being especially odious to the 
spinster, not that she had ever sought that distinction, and was not 
a little amused at it. 

Anything like a true joy— a worldly joy that is, for she had 
many spiritual ones still left to her, every little passing incident that 
amused her was at this time quite prized by the poor little girl. 

She knew, on entering the drawing-room, that her flush and ex- 
citement became her and would therefore be highly annoying to the 
amiable visitor. 

Like nearly all false people, Miss Latflnch habitually exaggerated 
the gullibility of her friends. She was a clever woman in some 
things, but stupid in this. 

“ Ah, dearest child,” she said, trying to embrace her, but Camilla 
stopped her by a double handshake, “ how good of you to come 
down, but you are always so sweet.” 

“ And so kind of you to call, we see so few people.” 

“ Come now, let me look at you. Everybody told me you had 
been so ill. Quite a resurrection, 1 declare.” 

“Oh, yes, 1 feel well enough just now. And so you have brought 
us all the news. You are always as good as a newspaper.” 

“ You mean about Lady Susan Graye?” 

“ Oh, dear no, I read that in the Post hours ago.” 

Miss Laffinch knew perfectly well it was in the paper, but finding 
Lady Prendergast happened not to have read it, she thought to make 
a point — “ to score one ” as she put it to herself — by concealing the 
fact. 

“ Oh,” she said, coloring, “ 1 haven’t seen a paper to-day.” 

Bhe was tingling to turn the event to the torture of Camilla, but 
dreaded “ having her nose snapped off ” again as she had called to 
Sir Howard the lesson Miss Harding had administered to her im- 
pudence. She thought, however, that she would try cautiously. 

They were now having t ea near the open window. 

Tea always accentuated Miss Latfinch’s bad points, but to be sure 
it seemed as if most things did that. After a couple of cups and half 
a muffin or so, she said: 

“ Ah, well, ah, well! We never know what is for the best! Now, 
even, my dear, if he had married you — ” 

It is impossible on paper to convey the faintest idea of the way, 
the quiet, simple, yet terrifying way, in which Camilla turned upon 
her, and merely said: 

“Eh?” 

It meant: “ Now then, are you going to begin again? Mind you 
are still in time to swallow your words, but dare to finish them and 
out of that door you go for ever. ’ ’ 

The speaker, like the true coward she was, grew instantly abject. 

“ All I mean— pray let me finish my sentence, dearest child— 1 
misexpress myself — ” 

“ You do,” said Camilla, smiling carelessly, as she fed Rolf with 
cake. 


SILVERMEAD. 135 

“ Oh, you insolent little hussy!” thought the spinster, but she 
only said : 

“ I mean that if he had sought some— any less wealthy alliance — 
when 1 said you, 1 meant some girl who, like you, have charm, 
character, beauty — ” 

“ Lady Susan has plenty of that,” put in Camilla. 

“ Mere beauty, granted, but no one shall tell me she is the woman 
to bind a man’s spirit to her own tor long, to control such a man as 
that young — ” 

The girl could not have told why, but she did not choose to have 
the man whom she had ceased to love spoken of with contemptuous 
vulgarity by this caitiff tongue. It was enough to cast her eyes 
calmly on the speaker for the sentence to change its ending into — 
“ Mr. Brudenell.” 

“ And tell me,” said Camilla, “ how is Mr. Forbes? We heard he 
was so ill. ’ ’ 

“ Better. Oh, far better, quite convalescent. Such a strange 
thing. You know Sir Ewing Crofton has been attending him. Well, 
lie had never seen him before, but has taken the strongest fancy to 
the young man — so unusual in a doctor, isn’t it? Well, Sir Crofton 
you know, has a lovely place in Surrey, and nothing will do but he 
must carry young Forbes off there as soon as he could start, for Lady 
Crofton and his girls to nurse him.” 

“ How very kind,” said Lady Prendergast. 

“ Kind ?” "shrieked Laffinch, disdainfully, “ positively indecent, 
1 call it; they’ll catch him for one of the Miss Croftons.” 

“ But he is so poor.” 

“ Pahl With Lord Hammersley’s interests they'll soon get him 
something; besides, he is only two lives oft the "title; Crofton’s a 
regular old fox — known him all my life.” 

“ Why should he not do an act of simple kindness?” asked 
Camilla. 

“ Ah, you don’t know the world. He says to himself that it will 
please the Hammersleys, and especially young Acton; that alone 
makes it worth his while; if more come of it, why, all the better. 
Ha, ha, ha! Kindness indeed! Ah, my poor innocent!” and hav- 
ing thus delivered herself, she took advantage of the sentence to de- 
part with an air of pitying superiority. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

It was some days after the above little skirmish that the great 
medical consultation before recorded took place. Lady Prendergast 
had thus taken "two important measures in vain; the other being 
that letter to Sir Howard which the news of his nephew’s fresh en- 
gagement had, as it turned out most unfortunately, prevented her 
from sending. 

Had it gone to its destination it would of course have made Sir 
Howard Brudenell very angry indeed, not with the writer, but with 
Horace. Nevertheless *tlie baronet’s strict sense of honor and of jus- 
tice, to say nothing of his invariable gallantry, would have secured 
liis sifting the case in its every phase, and in that process Camilla 


SILYERMEAB. 


136 

Harding could not have failed to come out not only spotless in the 
deluded young man’s eyes, but all the more radiant and irresistible 
from having been so sadly misjudged, and because she had suffered 
therefrom well-nigh unto death. But if Providence always took 
such care of the innocent as to preserve them in this life from those 
miseries which the machinations of the unprincipled entail upon 
them, we should grow to look upon crime with only half the horror 
it deserves. It would become a mere temptation by which certain 
souls have to be tried, since their yielding or resisting would be then 
narrowed to the result of their own salvation or perdition. It is a 
wise dispensation indeed, that gives to sin a broader and yet more - 
terrible aspect in the eyes of humanity. Only the impious ever sup- 
pose that heaven has abandoned the innocent, because their temporal 
happiness is ofttimes wrecked by the wicked. 

Lady Prendergast, who was, as has been seen, completely in the 
dark, even more so than Camilla, as to the real facts of the case, _ 
very naturally concluded that if Horace Brudenell’s marriage was 
proclaimed in the papers, no practical result could reward her inter- 
ference, and she now shrunk more than ever from a step which she ' 
had only brought herself to take with the utmost difficulty, at a sad 
sacrifice of pride, and from a desperate desire to snatch her beloved 
grandchild from despair, at any cost. It will surprise no one, - 
therefore, to learn that after much less deliberation than she had ex- 
pended on its concoction, the aged lady ultimately burned her letter - 
to Sir Howard. 

Some slight hope was revived in her by the truthful Camilla’s as- - 
surance that she had quite ceased to love Horace Brudenell, nor did 
the old lady, in the girl’s subsequent excitement in speaking of his - 
marriage, find any contradiction of that assertion; this however, was 
amply attributable to pride, contempt, or a purely virtuous indigna- 
tion. 

Although Lady Prendergast of late years had never absented her- ~ 
self from her well beloved Silver mead without experiencing what 
she termed a “ wrench,” and nourished an especial antipathy to all 
other spots of earth whatever, London alone excepted, she was not • 
the woman to allow any such weakness to weigh with her for an in- 
stant in reference to tlie doctor’s unanimous exhortation that Ca- 
milla should immediately have change of air. 

How, a doctor’s change of air, 1 believe, never means London. 

In fact, the term usually implies some place ■where there is a good 
deal of air and nothing else. Their advice on this head indeed often 
seems to amount to their saying: “You have had too much amuse- 
ment, too much excitement; 1 now wish you to be w T ell bored for a ' 
space.” 

Brave old Lady Prendergast set herself then to mentally review 
various dreary English watering places, most of which rose before 
her mind’s eye as a crescent with bathing machines; and a series of 
continental health spots, only more detestable in her opinion, be- 
cause inhabited by foreigners. 

It is true that Camilla flushed up and quite rose out of her habit- 
ual torpor on the occasion of her grandmother’s visit to her boudoir, 
blooming for an hour again into her old health, or at least its sem- 
blance. But the next day came reaction with that benumbed state 


SILVERMEAD. 137 

that had recently been growing upon the girl, and since then her 
gleams of liveliness had been terribly few and slight. 

One morning when they were sitting together. Lady Prendergast 
said: 

“ Well, love, the doctors must be obeyed. 1 wish you to choose 
where we shall go.” 

“ Go! Oh, gran’ma, you do not think of leaving Silvermead?” 

“ On the contrary, 1 have determined to do so.” 

Camilla came over and sat on a footstool at the old lady’s feet. 

“ Gran’ma, it is no use.” 

“ How so, child?” she asked, fondling her head — that silky, 
sunny hair, at least, had not changed. 

“If I am ill 1 ought to be indulged, and I do not want to go 
away.” 

“ Camilla, my darling, put yourself in my place. Whether I love 
you much or not at all, and you know very well which it is — how 
can 1 do anything but obey the absolute command of the doctors?” 

“ The doctors! Rubbish!” said the girl pettishly. 

“ This is childish. For shame, little one.” 

“We will not mind them.” 

“ You are not wont to be such a baby. Think of the responsibil- 
ity; it would be terrible.” 

“ You mean if 1 were to die?” said Camilla, and she looked up 
frightened, as if a great secret had escaped her — a secret dreadful to 
the listener but not to her. 

“ Hush, hush, my child, 1 cannot bear it,” and Lady Prendergast 
began silently to cry. This proud, hard woman was learning the 
habit of tears. 

“ Gran’ma,” said the girl, now kneeling and kissing her, “ 1 will 
not be childish, 1 will not talk any more nonsense. Listen.” 

“Well, love?” 

“ Here, at dear Silvermead, 1 may be sad — 1 — 1 often am — but I 
never feel dull, oh, never.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, if you take me away 1 shall be wretched, that I tell you. 
Oh, how shall I make j r ou understand, I cannot explain to myself — 
if you take me away 1 know, 1 feel, I shall get worse so quick. Oh, 
gran’ma, if you drag me from Silvermead, you will never bring me 
back!” 

The girl spoke with such deep conviction, with such fervor, that 
Lady Prendergast was staggered. 

“ My own Camilla, do not say such dreadful things! No doubt if 
you are so impressed with this idea — ” 

“ Oh, I am, 1 am !” 

“ It may in itself alter the case. Why did you not yourself speak 
of this to the doctors, and hear what they would say?” 

“ It did not occur to me then. When they left I took it for 
granted we should obey them and go away, and it was only after- 
ward I came to see I could not leave Silvermead.” 

“ Well, well, 1 will do nothing rashly, I will reflect, consult Dr. 
McFinn, and — ” 

Here a servant entered with a letter foi her ladj^sliip. It bore no 
stamp and the man said an answer was waited for. 


138 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ Who brought this?” she said, rather severely, after adjusting 
her glasses, and glancing at the’ superscription. 

‘ ‘ A servant, my lady. ’ ’ 

“ Yery well. 1 will ring presently,” and the man retired. 

Camilla had already recognized the hand, and with considerable 
surprise. 

She now strolled to the other side of the room. 

When her relative had carefully perused the letter in silence, she 
said: 

“ Camilla, this is from an old friend of yours — Mr. Acton.” 

** And what does he say?” 

“ Read, dear, for yourself.” 

Camilla of course obeyed. The contents were as follows: — 

“ My dear Lady Prendergast, — You will no doubt be surprised 
to find that 1 am back again so soon in your vicinity. Somehow or 
other, 1 found myself getting quite out of health and spirits in hot, 
crowded London, and our friend Mr. De Basle has persuaded me to 
come down and catch some of his famous trout. 1 am leading a 
highly Arcadian existence at a farmhouse near the stream, getting 
up at four in the morning, instead of going to bed at that hour, as 1 
have generally been doing lately. 

“Now, 1 know that when ‘ I was last here appearances were 
against me; and you deemed it necessary, in pursuance of certain 
views to wliich I need not further allude, to ask me to discontinue 
my visits, and to insist upon my holding no intercourse with Miss 
Harding. 

” I write this letter to ask you to remove these restrictions, on 
condition of my taking a solemn engagement which, when you urged 
it upon me before, 1 did not feel justified in entering into. ftly 
friendship for others did not then allow it. 1 am now ready to give 
m3 7 word of honor to be no one's embassador, or inlermediary, in any 
sense whatever. May 1 come and pay you my respects? A verbal 
‘ yes ’ by bearer will bring me over this afternoon. 

‘ ‘ Believe me, 

“ Sincerely yours, 

” Cyril Acton. ” 

“ Well, gran’ma,” said the girl, “ you believe him of course.” 

“ 1 hardly know what to say. Tell 111c, did you know of this?” 

f< Of what?” 

“ Of Mr. Acton being down here, of his intention of writing this 
letter?” There was a slight returning of harshness as the late tear- 
ful woman put these questions. 

“ Oh, no, gran’ma — on my honor!” 

“ That will do, so far. Isow, on your side, if I allow him to 
come, will you— will you promise to make no use of him to which 
I should object? you know what 1 mean.” 

“ I shall ask him if he has seen my papa, and if he is well,” said 
Camilla, blushing as if a lover were in the case. 

“ Hum!” said the other, reflectively. “ And that is all?” 

“ Oh, yes, gran’ma, 1 will swear it, if it is not wicked.” 

“ No, your promise will do. And tell me, would you like to see 
your friend Mr. Acton?” 


SILVERMEAD. 


139 


“ Oh, yes, that 1 should,” exclaimed the girl "with heartiness. 

“ Very well, sit down and write.” 

And she reflected : “Girls are such unaccountable things that 1 
may be mistaken in this one. Her old fiiend and playmate may 
amuse, or at least distract her. She may even in time grow to — who 
knows?” & 

“ Well, gran’ma?” asked Camilla, who sat ready, pen in hand. 

“Just say, dear — 

“ Silverhead, June 20 th, 188 — . 

“ Dear Mr. Acton, — Can you not dine with us to-day at half- 
past seven? Do if you can. At any rate 1 shall be very happy to 
see you on the understanding you propose. 

“ 1 remain, 

“ Truly yours, 

“Elizabeth Prendergast. ” 


“ That will do, Camilla.” 

“ But supposing he accepts, must he send a man all the way back 
here to say so?” 

“ You are right and show more thought than usual, child. Add 
a postscript then.” 

“ Yes, gran’ma!” 

“ Do not, pray, think it requisite to answer about dinner. 

Then Camilla folded the note and rang the bell, saying: 

“ He knows my hand, but that does not matter.” 

“ On the contrary, my dear. He will thus see that you know as 
he does, on what terms 1 allow of your meeting.” 

And so the letter was sent to Acton who awaited it with an anxiety 
he had tried hard to conceal in the sought for careless wording of his 
note. The invitation to dine at Silvermead that very day surpassed 
all his expectations and made him feel moie buoyant and sanguine 
than he had done for many a long day. 

The fact, too, that Camilla had been deputed to pen the missive 
added wildly to his joy. 

So it was peace, was it? A thousand times the better; but this 
wily diplomatist had come down equally prepared for war. With 
no respect for honor himself, he undervalued the effect of an appeal 
to it in influencing others, and was positively rather taken aback 
although delightfully so by the redoubtable Lady Prendergast’s ready 
acceptance of his word. Had his former alliance with Cave Hard- 
ing still rendered him incapable of forcing the siege of Silvermead, 
Cyril Acton was armed with signed authority from this worthy to 
entice Miss Harding into unlimited rebellion and disobedience to her 
grandmother, and into clandestine meetings with Cyril. They even 
included powers for his bringing her bodily away, and straight unto 
the paternal breast, in the event of certain speculations, now on the 
very eve, Mr. Harding hoped and trusted, of a triumphant issue 
coming off without any disastrous hitch. 

As for the fishing of which he talked so much, it was a pastime 
rather distasteful to Cyril Acton than otherwise. 

He was driven now into a certain pursuit of it by sheer force of 
circumstances, but he never sallied forth, rod in hand, without some 
book Li his pocket from which he hoped to learn still better than he 


140 


SILYERMEAD. 


knew already how to outwit liis fellow men. Yes — man was the 
prey upon whom he impiously deemed himself framed to w r ar. It 
happened to be the season of the May-fly, when the worst angler can 
speedily catch enough fish to make a show on returning home by the 
aid of that yellow fraud, that bait almost poaching in its short-lived 
deadliness; and so much accomplished, Cyril granted the poor trout 
an unhoped-for respite in which, it is needless to say, that tenderness 
for their lives held no share. 

The beauties of the landscape— so dear to his poor cousin Jack — 
were as naught to this hard young man, because they found no re- 
flex of their own purity, and no field for their sweet sermons within 
his false and hollow breast. 

He owned himself, and with prids even, “ There are few things, 
indeed, I care for, but those few 1 love desperately.” 

To-day, he pined and burned to see Camilla. 


CHAPTER XXY111. 

Camilla, as we have seen, felt under a real load of gratitude to 
Acton, and she now determined, as some small return for all he had 
done for hei, to render his stay in the neighborhood as pleasant to 
him as in liei lay; and to suffer no engrossing melancholy, no 
physical listlessness of her own to interfere with this resolve to en- 
tertain him to the best of her power. 

Besides the letters of one to the other which have been given, 
several more had passed between them, but being all in the same key 
of flagrant falsehood on the one side, and of sweet though misplaced, 
truthfulness on the other, it is better, perhaps, to suppress them, as 
they could add little to the reader’s knowledge, and would prove, 
perchance, immeasurably revolting. 

Acton came into dinner that day feeling, among other things, in- 
tensely curious to see what his handiwork had wiouglit in liis in- 
tended victim. For her happiness he cared little, but he was fearful 
lest his tactics should have impaired her beauty; for that, to him, 
next to his usurped worldly position, was the most precious thing on 
earth, for the present at least. 

The hired fly which brought him compassed the half-dozen miles 
of road with unallowed-for rapidity ; he was, therefore, a few minutes 
too soon, and was shown into the empty drawing-room. But Camilla, 
who had heard the wheels, hastened down to meet him, never dream- 
ing but their old friendship was ample dispensation for being in ad- 
vance of her grandmother. 

The candid child, clad all in simple white, with a natural flower 
or two in her hair and dress, came rapidly toward the young man 
with both hands extended and a slight flush upon her cheek. He 
took those hands in both his own, and, gracefully enough, raised 
the right one to his lips. 

Poor little Lilia, unaccustomed to such gallantries, received the 
old salute of chivalry with deepened color. 

“ 1 heard you come,” she said, “ and hurried down. Our clocks 
must be slow.” 


SllVERMEAD. 141 

" Ko, indeed, 1 feai it is I who am early, yet I cannot regret it 
by even a second. I am so delighted to see you again.” 

And his eyes gleamed with real satisfaction. 

No. Whatever she had suffered she was no less lovely than of 
yore, not, at least, as she stood before him at that moment,. Her 
beauty was changed, indeed, but not diminished. What it had lost 
in childish insouciance and bloom, it had more than gained in ex- 
pression and dignity. It was far more individual than Acton had 
left it two months before. 

Though at the time of year when the sun sets latest, the lofty hills 
which rear their grassy heads to the west of Silvermead endow or 
afflict it, according to each one’s view, with precocious evenings, and 
the glow of summer twilight, brilliant yet soft, was upon Camilla 
from head to foot, bathing her in a mystic halo as she stood before 
Cyril Acton, her face full to the window, whose open doors reached 
from the floor to well-nigh the groined and embossed old ceiling. 

“Iam so glad you have come back,” said she, “ but sorry you 
have been ill. Has the shire air already done you good?” 

“ The Silvermead air will, 1 am sure,” he replied, pointedly. He 
knew his listener well enough to be sure that she would never see 
more than the wish to say pleasant things in any compliments he 
might pay her, so long as there was a chance of her taking them as 
such. 

“Well,” she rejoined, “then you must come and breathe a 
great deal of it, and you will do us' good loo, for we are desperately 
dull here.” 

Lady Prendcrgast now entered the room and after the usual com- 
mon-places had been exchanged, dinner was announced, and her 
3adj r ship scorning the conventional joke about her being an old 
woman, and the consequent necessity of her guest taking down the 
young lady, accepted Acton’s proffered arm, and led the way into 
the dining-room, followed by Camilla and the deerhound. 

Of course Acton did not like dogs, and still more, of course, Rolf, 
who saw through the false man far better than either of the ladies 
did, and lost no iota of his noble love upon him. The two saw much of 
each other from this time during several weeks, and Acton, in order 
to win Camilla’s favor, affected a great partiality for Rolf, but all 
in vain. That intelligent animal always growled when he appeared, 
and looked very like flying at nim if Cyril touched any fan, hat, or 
any other article belonging to his mistress. Of course he did not 
refuse cakes or sugar from the traitorous hand; Rolf was but a dog, 
only it invariably required some such potent bribe to make the noble 
hound decently civil to him, and even then he always took such 
gifts with the air of one conferring a favor. 

All this rather amused Camilla, who could but remember how 
Master Rolf had taken to Horace Brudenell the very first, indeed the 
only time they had met. 

But th«n all the dogs and children took at once to Horace, reading 
in his eyes that he could not find it in his heart to hurt them. 

“ Ah,” she sighed more than once, when this contrast struck her, 
“ what nonsense people talk about dogs being subtle readers of 
character! Oh, you are wrong for once, my beautiful friend,” she 


SILVERMEAD. 


142 

said, addressing the dog, “ though you do look so wise. Yes, yes r 
you are, so don’t deny it!” . 

And Camilla patted him hard, and stooped down and let him kiss 
her, for it was an illogical little way with her often to caress Rolf as 
much for his shortcomings as for his good deeds, and the deer-hound 
knew this cpiite well, and this accounts for his having been far from 
an irreproachable dog in regard to running hares, fighting the mem- 
bers of the canine species, and such-like flagrant acts of insubordi- 
nation. 

During dinner that first day Acton was especially bent upon mak- 
ing good his recovered ground with Lady Prendergast. They par- 
took of some trout he had brought with him, a little surprise for the 
old lady, who had none of her own, and whose London fishmonger 
never dreamt of sending what he perhaps considered in the light of 
coals to Newcastle. 

There was plenty to tell these two country ladies about London 
that was not recorded in the newspapers, and Cyril Acton rattled 
away most agreeably. He was one of those who make it a part of 
their system, as it also accords with their taste, to know everybody, 
and yet spend nothing on anybody. Quite aware that this plan en- 
tails some trouble exposes one to be much bored, and is a great tax 
upon time, yet did he estimate its advantages as exceeding the draw- 
backs. 

“ Why,” he asked himself , “ should 1 dine badly because cheaply, 
at my expense, when I can find so many worthy people wlio will go- 
on their knees to me to come and be sumptuously feasted; as the 
eldest son of a rich viscount a man may frequent any second or third 
rate people without losing ground in the most exclusive circles. It 
is only gentlemen of inferior position who are forced bon grb mal gre 
to be very fine, if they would keep their footing in the difficult 
houses; because, if they are not that, there is the danger of the world 
asking, “ W r hat are they?” 

It was no wonder then that Acton’s talk was, when he chose, very 
amusing; possessing more variety and color than that of most smart 
young men whom one meets. It is this last quality, color, which is- 
so painfully conspicuous by its absence in the very fashionable world. 

] ts members have so many things in common that individuality gets 
toned down to a minimum. 

Acton had many an amusing tale to tell of people w r ho had got on 
by some more or less strange means to which he generally imparted 
a comic aspect ; of others who had grotesquely failed and of those 
who were still toiling and wasting vast sums of hard-earned money 
on the attempt to “force their way ” to the top, because, like the 
English at Waterloo, they did not know w^hentliey were beaten. If 
Camilla laughed, sometimes not to disappoint the talker, she did so 
at others because she could not help it. Now laughter, especially 
involuntary laughter, is quite the most curative thing in the world. 
Lady Prendergast, like the sapient old woman she was, thoroughly 
believed in its virtue, and was delighted beyond measure to have 
called in Dr. Cyril Acton. 

Though not much of a laugher herself, the grandame on this oc- 
casion joined in every little burst of merriment to the utmost of her 
visible powers, well knowing how contagious is all cacchinalion, and* 


SILYEffMEAD. 143 

j>er contra, how the neglect of one person to join in a cheering peal 
checks and chills others, however inclined to laugh. 

The Silverinead dining- table, albeit of hospitable repute, was, at 
this season which is always called dull in the country, because the 
flowers and birds have it all to themselves, seldom the recipient of a 
guest, for the excellent reason that there was no one to ask. An odd 
clergyman or so, and now and then little Dr. McFinn, could hardly 
be considered as much relief to the daily tete-d-tete. 

If nothing could now give what may even on sufferance be called 
pleasure, to Camilla, the presence of this man of the world, un- 
expected as it was, served, at least, as a welcome distraction. It was 
also a relief to her on Lady Prendergast’s account, and prevented 
that fearfully solicitous glance being so constantly cast in her direc- 
tion. There was, besides, that spur to exertion on tbe girl’s part on 
the score of her supposed immense amount of gratitude to this cruel 
villain for countless favors, old and new, both to herself and father. 
The dinner, then, was regarded by the whole trio who partook of it 
as a social success, and when the ladies rose to leave the room, Acton 
declared the weather was too hot for drinking, and insisted upon 
accompanying them, a la frangaise. 

After coffee had been served in the drawing-room, the two young 
people sauntered out upon the lawn. 

“ 1 know,” said Acton, “ that you will only think well of me for 
scrupulously adhering to my solemn promise given to Lady Pren- 
dergast.” 

“ Oh, that I do,” said the girl, looking grave but earnest. “ It 
may be hard, but it is what we have no choice about. If it were 
not for that we could not meet.” 

Her companion perhaps attached a meaning not flattering to him- 
self to the tone in which this sentence ended, but he only said: 

“ Otherwise, believe me, I should know how best to entertain 
you. You cannot doubt that 1 am charged by my dearest friend, 
your father, with many a message which I cannot give.” 

“Oh, hush, hush,” said the scrupulous Camilla; “even that is 
almost loo much.” 

“ But I have said nothing.” 

It is remarkable that the dishonorable, in abandoning the practice, 
always lose the knowledge of honor. 

“ You would not have said that before gran’ma,” she pursued, 
and then seeing his face change, her delicacy and humility made 
her put herself in the wrong, and distressed at having wounded her 
benefactor, she added: 

“ Oh, forgive me. 1 am sure you did not dream you were going 
too far. Besides, it was for my sake. Forgive me,” and she held 
out her hand. 

He thought: “ Dear me, I must be on my p’s and q’s here it 
seems.” Taking the proffered hand he said: “ At least, most con- 
scientious of mortals, 1 may tell you that Mr. Harding is well— par- 
ticularly well.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, laughing and resuming possession of her lit- 
tle hand, which the other seemed slightly inclined to retain. “ I 
suppose there is no harm in that. ’ ’ 

“ By-the-bye,” he went on, “ talking of being well, I was alarmed 


144 


SILYERMEAD. 


to hear the other day — it is strange how news travels — that you had 
been so ill there had been a consultation here about you.” 

The girl’s tace grew very grave. 

“Yes,” she replied, “ and I am glad to see you alone to tell me 
something.” 

“ Indeed,” he said, with real concern. 

“ I — I have been, 1 am — very far from well. The doctors would 
not say so before me, of course, but 1 feel sure they told gran’ma 
so.” 

“ 1 can scarcely believe — ” he interrupted with growing alarm. 

“ Stay,” she urged, touching his arm, sisterly fashion, for a mo- 
ment. “ She is so miserable about me,” and suddenly Camilla 
broke down and began to cry. “ I love her very much too, much 
more than 1 ever used to do, or thought I should.” 

“ Oh, pray, pray do not cry. 1 cannot bear it!” pleaded Acton, 
for he knew that tenderness was not his line. 

“ What I want to beg of you is, when you see me looking ill, I do 
look quite awful sometimes, that you never show you notice it to 
gran’ma.” 

“ But this looks more serious. Do you know you are frightening 
me to death? What is the matter with you?” 

“ They cannot tell,” said Camilla, looking down. 

“Then it is nothing!” exclaimed he with conviction. ‘‘Of 
course, in any case, 1 will do all you ask, but it will be easy to make 
Lady Prendergast believe in your recovery, for I cannot bring mj T - 
self to believe you are ill. ” 

They had all this time been walking up and down on the moonlit 
sward, kept like a carpet by the Silvermead gardeners — in sight of 
windows, but well out of earshot. He now stopped short to look at 
her and said : 

“ What do you feel? Why do you speak almost — O Heavens L 
almost hopelessly of yourself? The best doctors know so little.” 

“ I cannot speak to night,” said the girl, wearily; “ to-morrow, 
next time I see you, you shall hear all. I am sorry to have made 
you sad. I did not think you would be so alarmed as that, 1 was 
so anxious to prevent your making dear gran’ma worse.” 

They resumed their walk in silence. 

Acton was angry as well as frightened. 

What could thus mysteriously have stricken down this lovely ob- 
ject of his passion and his covetousness — for, be it remembered, he. 
believed her very rich — in the vigor of her youth! What but love 
for Horace Brudenell? Had he then not blackened him enough? 

Before either spoke again a servant was dispatched to say that as 
the dew was falling fast, her ladyship wished Miss Harding to. 
hasten in. 

And the behest was instantly obeyed. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

It may be supposed that Acton was not likely to miss the oppor- 
tunity so frankly extended to him. He firmly believed that time 
and tact were alone needed to enable him to eradicate whatever girlish 
feelings about Brudenell might still linger. in Camilla’s breast, and 


SILYERMEAD. 145 

to implant an admiration and appreciation of himselt in their stead, 
which should finally ripen into a new love. 

Because she had lost her beauty, he could not, would not, believe 
that her health was shattered. 

Even this wise young man was prone, like the rest of us, to be- 
lieve what he hoped. 

But that which had disturbed him on the evening just described 
far more than either the state or feelings of the girl herself, were the 
tidings that his cousin Jack had not only been so tiiesome as to re- 
cover, but had actually become the guest of the great physician who 
had cured him. In the intimacies of life under one roof what con- 
fidences might not take place between them, and fraught with what 
disastrous results to himself? 

Why had Sir Ewing been so anxious to meet Lord Ilammersley’s 
heir apparent? Did it arise entirely from feelings of “ auld lang 
syne ” and devotion to Cyril’s noble and long exiled parents? It 
was not likely.. 

Was he, Acton, imprudent in having made himself so well known 
in London? But if so, what had been the alternative? Ought he 
too, like his father and mother, to condemn himself to a life of exile 
and obscurity? Would not such a course have led of itself to arouse 
public suspicion and provoke investigation? Anyhow, the die was 
cast. He had taken the bolder, and as he still honestly believed the 
better course. Then as soon as he had found London too hot for 
him, as he had told his friends in another sense, he has flown off to 
the Isle of Wight for a fortnight, where his brooding had resulted in 
organizing with Mr. De Basle by letter this his present innocent- 
looking little expedition among the trout, the wild flowers and the 
bowers of Camilla Harding. 

And now, now, what was his next move to be? First of all he 
would court and propose to her. If, contrary to all probability, she 
rejected his suit, well then he had yet a strong card to play to turn 
the losing game in his favor, or rather he reckoned upon having it in 
his cruel hand by the needed moment. But of this anon. 

Should the bloo Abounds, as he mentally epitlietized Crofton, 
Forbes and Co. , with whom, something whispered him that Horace 
Brudenell would be joined, hunt him up in his sylvan retreat, then 
he told himself he would once more fly. 

Meanwhile, he would lose no time, while avoiding all semblance 
of haste or precipitation: “ Festma lente ” should be his motto. He 
had immense faith, or was it desperation? in the idea that if he could 
once gain the object of his passion, he would then be safe. With- 
out precisely explaining to himself how, he believed it would be her 
destiny to shield them. 

The marriage over, what a splendid excuse would be secured for 
a sudden flight to Canada, should his safety suggest it, on the plea 
that he wished to present his blushing bride to a father and mother- 
in-law who longed to clasp her to their loving breasts! 

Thus, knowing as we do the respective situations and true feelings 
with which the two met, it will not be necessary to give any detailed 
account of the almost daily intercourse of Cyiil Acton and Camilla, 
during the three weeks or so which ensued after that first return 
of his to Silvermead. 


146 


SILYERMEAD. 


For the girl herself, the young man’s company was at the best a 
distraction, but it pleased Lady Prendergast, and so she gave him as 
much of her society as he desired ; moreover, she never forgot her 
debt of gratitude. 

During this interval Acton gradually arrived at the conclusion 
that a carefully modulated transition trom the friend to the lover 
would not give him nearly so fair a chance with a girl like Camilla 
as would a sudden unmasking of his batteries and an attempt to take 
her heart by storm. Day after day he watched and watched in vain 
for the slightest sign of incipient love — of something not merely sis- 
terly in the girl’s aspect or bearing. But no, much to his surprise 
be it noted, there was nothing, no scintilla of anything of the kind, 
and Cyril was too clear-sighted to deceive himself in the matter. 
Had he not known her from childhood to be one ever apt to show 
what she felt as though she were made of crystal and her feelings 
were visible things? 

It never for an instant dawned upon her that her old friend, her 
almost playmate of former years, had any designs upon her what- 
ever; not even one afternoon when his stay was a fortnight old and 
the following conversation took place between them. 

They were sitting under the trees — Lady Prendergast had been 
with them but had gone in, perhaps on purpose that they should be 
alone. Sitting! yes, Camilla was now nearly always sitting or lying 
down, an insupportable fatigue invading her if ever she attempted 
to walk far or stand for any length of time. 

“ Camilla,” he began, he always called her so now as in the old 
foreign days — “ you said the first evening I was here that you would 
tell me when there was more time, all about your supposed illness. 

1 hope your not having done so is a sign you no longer believe in it 
— that you feel better and mean to get quite strong again very soon.” 

The girl grew suddenly grave, and slowly shaking her head, re- 
plied: 

“No, it is not that, 1 shall never get well, 1 am sure. I do not 
mind telling you the truth, but it seems so selfish to be always talk- 
ing of myself. ’ ’ 

“ Tell me, tell me all. 1 implore!” and he drew closer. 

“ But you are so kind, that with your friendship for me it will 
make me sad.” 

“ i want to dissipate my sadness by curing yours.” 

“ That is hopeless.” " . 

“ Why hopeless?” 

“Listen.” She paused a moment as though to overcome some 
lingering scruples, and then, looking into the distance: 

“ You cannot have any idea how I loved Horace Brudenell. I 
always thought when 1 was quite young that if I ever loved it would 
be desperately, but what I felt for him from the first, or at least from 
the moment he appeared to care for me, which was almost directly, 
w*as something I cannot put in words; it astonished me far more than 
1 can say. I felt frightened and delighted. Frightened because 1 
knew if all did not go well it must kill me. Delighted, for 1 hoped 
all would end happily, and also that if I lost him there would be a 
strange joy in dying for his love.” 


SILVEKWEAD. 147 

She paused a moment, but Cyril only pressed her hand. She pur- 
sued: 

“ The one, the only thing’ I never dreamt of, is what has hap- 
pened: I mean his proving not merely false to me, but — altogether 
unworthy of any one. ’ ’ 

“ 1 assure you,” put in Acton, “ that 1 can hardly bring myself 
to speak civilly to the fellow—” she gave a little start — “ and but 
that you would, 1 know, never allow your name to be mixed up in 
it, 1 should have called him to. account, and come to very high 
words indeed, if to no worse.” 

“ Oh, no, oh, no,” she murmured, closing her glorious eyes for 
an instant, and with contracted brow. Presently she resumed. 
“ And now— oh, 1 would not say so if Iliad a doubt, now 1 am dy- 
ing.” 

“ No, no!” 

‘ * Yes. 1 do not know if 1 shall live weeks or months. 1 should 
so like to live as long as poor gran’ma, but I think it will be very 
soon. ” 

“No,” said Acton, very gently, “ it shall never be. You shall, 
live for her love and your father’s — for all our loves.” 

“ That is what 1 ought to do, but cannot. Would you not sup- 
pose that in finding what Mr. Brudenell is I should have recovered?' 
I think any other girl would.” 

“ But you- -you do not love him still?”. 

“ Love him? Oh, no, no, no! Can you ask?” 

Acton felt relieved. He said : 

“ Of course. Who can love when they despise? Look you, I 
have a remedy. ’ ’ 

“ Y ou have?” 

“ I have,” he said, confidently. 

“ Oh, you little know! What is it?” 

“ It is— but no, it is too soon. If given now it might fail, wait 
but one week. Wait and hope.” 

“I wonder what you can mean,” she said, with a sad smile. 
“ Oh, it is hard you should be deceived. Believe me it is all in vain.” 

“No, by Heaven!” 

“ Then tell me what it is.” 

“ I will — in one week.” 

And still she suspected naught. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The stipulated days went calmly by in a sunny routine, the 
weather proving hotter and hotter, but be the heat what it may, it 
was never too great for our poor little heroine now. The want of 
rain or some other cause had apparently spoiled the silvery trouts’ 
appetite, for Cyril Acton was more and more at Lady Prendergast’s. 
If Camilla continued insensibly to waste away there was yet that 
one thing which neither the hand of despair nor that of disease en- 
gendered thereof seemed potent to diminish, and that was her 
beauty. To Acton, who daily grew more and more intoxicated with 
it, more desperate on its account, it was a something wholly distinct 


148 


SILYERMEAP. 


from all else which was Camilla Harding. The rest of her, albeit 
she never married him, he often felt as though he hated. If the 
woman exists who could have inspired this evil man with a lasting 
love for her spirit as apart from her beauty and material charms we 
must seek her among the Borgias and the Messalinas, some one be- 
longing to the aristocracy of crime, a being half fiend, half woman, 
who would not weakly share but revel in his guilty secrets, a confi- 
dante ever ready to crown his brow at each fresh iniquity. 

And yet, and yet, while he derided this poor girl’s principles and 
despised her constancy and honor, all these virtues, by some subtle 
influence, added a thousandfold to his worthless passion. 

No, she did not love him, only an infatuated fool could have de- 
luded himself into that mistake, but he firmly believed that to please 
him — she was such a grateful little thing — her father and Lady 
Prendergast, she would willingly consent to be his wife, and then — 
well, he did not much care, but probably she would at last forget 
the rude demolition of her dream which was now killing her, and 
settle down to what Cyril called “the humdrum existence of all 
married women when they are good.” 

After deep reflection he resolved that his appeal should be made 
at night, the last thing before leaving, which was generally at half- 
past ten in the evenings he dined at Silvermead. However Camilla 
received it, this plan would obviate the awkwardness w 7 hich he fan- 
cied always immediately followed a declaration. When at length 
the day dawned upon which a week before he had promised to re- 
veal to Camilla his great scheme for saving her, there came with it 
an afterthought, which he deemed most propitious — a measure to 
take which he marveled had not struck him before. This w'as to 
speak first to the grandmother, and secure, as he doubtless would 
do, both her approval and support. 

Camilla now always retired to her own apartments at five o’clock, 
being in need of rest. The old lady had given Cyril to understand 
that she in nowise expected him to entertain her during the interval, 
and he generally repaired to the smoking-room and the newspapers 
or other reading until it was time to dress for dinner, he keeping a 
supply of such things as were requisite for the purpose in one of the 
bedrooms, at the request of his hostess en vrai ami de la maison. 

But on the special afternoon in question, he told Lady Prender- 
gast that he had a few words to say, and without further pref- 
ace sat him down by her side on the drawing room sofa; then, with 
the briefest simplicity, he stated his hopes. 

"What passed indeed w'as of so bald and commonplace a descrip- 
tion on both sides, that it will not serve any purpose to record their 
exact words. 

The old lady was not in the least surprised, and she fondly per- 
suaded herself that since this sharp and intelligent young man was 
asking her consent before proposing to Camilla, he probably had seen 
in the latter something to warrant his expectation of being said 
** yes ” to. For it struck the grandmother somewhat forcibly, and 
she often remembered the fact later on— that in her long experience 
of men and things, she never knew a lover to look so sanguine and 
speak more hopefully. 

It seemed to her that Cyril Acton both found and uttered his 


SILYERMEAD. 140 

'words with a readiness almost incompatible, at least in a general 
rule, with the natural perturbation of a man in his position. 

And yet of the reality of his love she could have no doubt. With 
his advantages of every kind, could he not marry whomsoever he 
pleased? And if he sought the almost penniless little fairy of Silver- 
mead — he too, who knew her misguided father — here was surely 
proof positive of a devotion as disinterested as it was no doubt pro- 
found. To give the devil his clue, as they say, it is probable that if 
at this interview Lady Prendergast had informed Acton of the real 
financial situation of her grandchild, it would not, at the point to 
which he had now worked himself up, have delayed his declaration 
for an hour, or stayed his hurry to make her his wife. This an- 
nouncement at one moment was on the old lady’s lips, but her good 
taste told her that to a man of Acton’s reputed means, or at least ex- 
pectations, there would be some indelicacy in obtruding the infor- 
mation while the very consent of the young lady was still uncertain. 

She contented herself then with showing the unfeigned pleasure 
she felt while still receiving the request with all becoming dignity. 
She deemed it her bounden duty to acquaint him with the very poor 
opinion which the doctors entertained of the girl’s health, but added 
her hope that if her thoughts could be but vigorously diverted into 
a new channel all might be well. 

It was of course Cyril’s cue to speak of Camilla with such defer- 
ence and admiration that the real quality of his passion could in 
nowise transpire; and for her delicate state and that morbid melan- 
choly, as he termed it, he showed the tenderest solicitude. 

Finally, assuming his blandest smile, and venturing to take the 
grandmother's wrinkled, but still white hand in a way that was al- 
most filial in its winning playfulness he obtained her promise, most 
freely given, that she would find a specious pretext for leaving the 
young people alone that night at about ten o’clock; and thereupon 
he left her for his habitual preprandial smoke. 

“ So far so good,” said he, as he blew the first gray clouds into 
the air. “ The old thing’s connivance was a foregone conclusion, 
however. Glad! I should think so, so she ought to be. As for 
Camilla, that’s another pair of shoes. Well, I ought to succeed. 
I think 1 shall, even if she refuses me point blank to-night. 
Then, when she is tied to me for life — funny that marriage should 
bind lovers but not husbands, isn’t it?— then I must find some way to 
make JBrudenell know that the man he saw her meet at night was 
her father. So my triumph will be complete. 1 do hate that fellow, 
and I think it is no wonder.” 

Dinner passed off that day rather silently, comparalively speaking, 
and in the drawing-room afterward the young man talked more to 
the old lady than the young one, and managed to avoid anything* 
like a tete-d-tete with the latter before the destined time. A little 
music, a paragraph or two which Cyril read aloud as the result of 
his private skimming of the newspaper, and the momentous ten 
o’clock struck almost simultaneously from the great tower, and the 
French clock on the mantel-piece. Lady Prendergast waited a few 
moments lest her leaving upon the hour should awaken the girl’s 
suspicions of any preconcerted plan, and then saying something 
about the barometer, she strolled leisurely into the hall leaving the 


SILVERMEAD. 


152 


capable, when he loves as I do. This aim, this end is— your hap- 
piness, your restoration to health and life. That gained, my next 
object will be to win your heart.” 

“ Do, do be calm,” said Camilla, “ or 1 can say nothing, make 
you understand nothing.” 

“ Anything, anything, at your bidding,” he said, very meekly*, 
“ but calmness just now is rather too much to expect of me, when 
my whole future existence hangs in the balance.” 

Again poor Camilla shook her head. 

“There is no balance,” she said. “Do you not see that you 
might as well plead to one dead as to me?” 

“ That is your delusion,” he interrupted. 

“ Let me speak. You have been always a good and true friend 
to me, and to my father, have you not?” 

“ 1 have had next to no opportunity of proving it.” 

“ Oh, 1 know,” pursued the girl, “ 1 do not forget. Well, it is, 
1 hope, only like my — my old self to be grateful.” 

“ Pray, do not speak of gratitude to me.” 

“ Nay, I must. What 1 am now going to say sounds hard: but 
it is kindest to convince you at once. 1 feel nothing for you at all I 
1 do not mean in the way of love. 1 believe all you say, and know, 
therefore, that you must be very miserable — suffering much. ISlow, 

1 ought to feel a sharp pang at all this, both for tne past and on ac- 
count of being myself the cause of what you conceive; but though 
with my brain 1 wish to be sorry, though 1 would force myself for 
very shame to be so, it is not real. When you are gone away, 1 
shall sleep neither better nor worse, perhaps not think of this con- 
versation at all. Y our troubles seem to m^as those 1 might read of" 
in a fiction. 1 know they are real because you are alive, but then 
you see I am not, so it comes to the same.” 

“Yet you feel as keenly as ever for some others — Lady Prender- 
gast — your father!” 

“ No, 1 do not. That is just what I was going to say. 1 would 
do anything for them; but I have lost, am losing more and more 
every day, my feeling even for them. 1 cannot reproach myself, 
for it is quite beyond my will. All you can do is to go away; if, 1 
mean, it makes you too unhappy to remain here now ; so go away 
from Silvermead and make up your mind that 1 am mad — 1 often 
think that perhaps I am partially so.” 

“ Camilla!” 

“ I must finish. This deadness that I feel will perhaps make you 
compassionate to me, when 1 tell you that it goes to the extent of my 
no longer being able to pity myself. 1 mean not even in a small de- 
gree. And oh, how 1 did pity myself two months ago ! Hour after 
hour, day and night, it was all my occupation. So selfish, so 
wrong, was it not?” 

“ You have never done anything wrong.” 

“ On, yes. 1 see now how far too well 1 loved myself and— him. 
And now that all is becoming clear to me, 1 know that my love for 
Horace Brudenell was, to a great degree, only another form of 
selfishness. Oh, Cyril, do you ever think of— Of course you do, 
when you pray; but 1 mean deeply, so as to realize how absurdly 
small are all human interests compared with it — of eternity. There 


SILTERMEAD. 


153 

now, the moment 1 begin to think of your soul my feelings become 
real and vivid. Do } t ou know that my growing indifference — numb- 
ness of heart, 1 call it, for «vant of a word — appears to me as a bless- 
ing sent from Heaven— as a holy warning that God is going to take 
me up unto himself very soon; and that He will not have me till all 
my old human affections are quite— quite cleared out of my breast, 
and 1 have made it fittei, by His aid, to receive His eternal love.” 

As the girl spoke, her voice grew lower and lower, and the latter 
portion of the long speech was uttered almost in a whisper. Her 
eyes w r ent heavenward, and — every vestige of her late apathy dis- 
pelled — she breathed and glowed as one in some ecstatic vision. 

But all was lost upon the cynic who alone was witness of this 
transfiguration. 

Her words, and the sudden change in her entire aspect, he 
ascribed both to mere physical weakness. He told himself that a 
woman happening to say “ black ” to-night was no argument against 
her declaring “ white ” to-morrow morning, rather the reverse. He 
failed to see that Camilla, at any rale, did not come under this rule 
of his, by which he chose to judge the entire sex. What she so 
frankly told him, of her loss of the faculty of feeling, he, in his 
heart, turned against her, saying to himself: “ If she eares not for 
my suffering, why should 1 spare her? She can feel nothing. Then 
she cannot accuse me of cruelty in forcing her to be mine. You 
cannot be cruel to a senseless thing.” 

It struck him, however, that there was nothing to be gained by 
prolonging this interview to-night. He accordingly rose to take 
leave. This headlong appeal, this rhapsodical outburst, on which 
he had so fondly relied, was an utter failure. He felt all the annoy- 
ance and humiliation that temporary defeat can bring to a man still 
confident of ultimate success, and for the moment, he even disliked 
the presence of Camilla, wishing to be miles away from her. Mask- 
ing, however, all signs of resentment or bitterness he held out his 
hand, and said: 

‘ ‘ 1 fear 1 have tried you sadly ; forgive me for remaining so late. 

I could hardly be expected, at such a moment, to keep note of the 
flight of time. Good-night!” 

But to his surprise, the young girl asked him to resume his seat. 

“I want you,” she spoke low, but earnestly, “to make me a 
promise before we part to-night. You will, you must — ” 

“ If I can, you may rely upon me.” 

“ It is necessary for both our sakes. 1 am grateful, believe me, 
for this new and great mark of your affection; the greatest a man 
can show to a woman. It surprised me beyond measure. 1 cannot 
tell why it should, but there, 1 give you my word that the thought 
of your loving me never entered my mind. I have said sometimes 
to myself of late, ‘ 1 think he loves,’ and T wnndered who it could 
be that had won your heart, and yet of whom you never spoke even 
to me. I supposed it was some London belle, and that probably 
your coming down here so suddenly to fish had something to do 
with it. Well, now that you have told me how it is, 1 wish you to 
know that I think you have done me a great honor and that I feel 
flattered at it— any girl would—” 

“ Flattered?” said Acton, rather coldly. 


SILYEmiEAD. 


152 


capable, when he loves as I do. This aim, this end is— your hap- 
piness, your restoration to health and life. That gained, my next 
object will be to win your heart.” 

“ Do, do be calm,” said Camilla, “ or 1 can say nothing, make 
you understand nothing.” 

“Anything, anything, at your bidding,” he said, very meekly* 
“ but calmness just now is rather too much to expect of me, when 
my whole future existence hangs in the balance.” 

Again poor Camilla shook her head. 

“There is no balance,” she said. “Do you not see that you 
might as well plead to one dead as to me?” 

“ That is your delusion,” he interrupted. 

“ Let me speak. You have been always a good and true friend 
to me, and to my father, have you not?” 

“ 1 have had next to no opportunity of proving it.” 

“ Oh, 1 know,” pursued the girl, “ 1 do not forget. Well, it is, 
1 hope, only like my — my old self to be grateful.” 

“ Pray, do not speak of gratitude to me.” 

“ Nay, I must. What 1 am now going to say sounds hard: but 
it is kindest to convince you at once. I feel nothing for you at all! 
1 do not mean in the way of love. 1 believe all you say, and know, 
therefore, that you must be very miserable — suffering much. Now, 
1 ought to feel a sharp pang at all this, both for tne past and on ac- 
count of being myself the cause of what you conceive; but though 
with my brain 1 wish to be sorry, though 1 would force myself for 
very shame to be so, it is not real. When you are gone away, 1 
shall sleep neither better nor worse, perhaps not think of this con- 
versation at all. Tour troubles seem to me*as those 1 might read of 
in a fiction. 1 know they are real because you are alive, but their 
you see I am not, so it comes to the same.” 

“Yet you feel as keenly as ever for some others — Lady Prender- 
gast — your father!” 

“ No, 1 do not. That is just what I was going to say. 1 would 
do anything for them; but 1 have lost, am losing more and more* 
every day, my feeling even for them. 1 cannot reproach myself, 
for it is quite beyond my will. All you can do is to go away; if, 1 
mean, it makes you too unhappy to remain here now; so go away 
from Silvermead and make up your mind that 1 am mad — 1 often 
think that perhaps I am partially so.” 

“ Camilla!” 

“ I must finish. This deadness that I feel will perhaps make you 
compassionate to me, when 1 tell you that it goes to the extent of my 
no longer being able to pity myself. 1 mean not even in a small de- 
gree. And oh, how 1 did pity myself two months ago ! Hour after 
hour, day and night, it was all my occupation. So selfish, so 
wrong, was it not?” 

“ You have never done anything wrong.” 

“ On, yes. 1 see now how far too well 1 loved myself and— him. 
And now that all is becoming clear to me, 1 know that my love for 
Horace Brudenell was, to a great degree, only another form of 
selfishness. Oh, Cyril, do you ever think of— Of course you do, 
when you pray; but 1 mean deeply, so as to realize how absurdly 
small are all human interests compared with it — of eternity. There 


SILYEKMEAD. 


153 

now, the moment 1 begin to think of your soul my feelings become 
real and vivid. Do j r ou know that my growing indifference — numb- 
ness of heart, 1 call it, for svant of a word— appears to me as a bless- 
ing sent from Heaven— as a holy warning that God is going to take 
me up unto himself very soon; and that^He will not have me till all 
my old human affections are quite— quite cleared out of my breast, 
and 1 have made it fittei, by His aid, to receive His eternal love.” 

As the girl spoke, her voice grew lower and lower, and the latter 
portion of the long speech was uttered almost in a whisper. Her 
eyes went heavenward, and — every vestige of her late apathy dis- 
pelled — she breathed and glowed as one in some ecstatic vision. 

But all was lost upon the cynic who alone was witness of this 
transfiguration. 

Her words, and the sudden change in her entire aspect, he 
ascribed both to mere physical weakness. He told himself that a 
woman happening to say “ black ” to-night was no argument against 
her declaring “ white ” to-morrow morning, rather the reverse. He 
failed to see that Camilla, at any rale, did not come under this rule 
of his, by which he chose to judge the entire sex. What she so 
frankly told him, of her loss of the faculty of feeling, he, in his 
heart, turned against her, saying to himself: “ If she cares not for 
my suffering, why should 1 spare her? She can feel nothing. Then 
she cannot accuse me of cruelty in forcing her to be mine. You 
cannot be cruel to a senseless thing.” 

It struck him, however, that there was nothing to be gained by 
prolonging this interview to-night. He accordingly rose to take 
leave. This headlong appeal, this rhapsodical outburst, on which 
he had so fondly relied, was an utter failure. He felt all the annoy- 
ance and humiliation that temporary defeat can bring to a man still 
-confident of ultimate success, and for the moment, he even disliked 
the presence of Camilla, wishing to be miles away from her. Mask- 
ing, however, all signs of resentment or bitterness he held out his 
hand, and said: 

* ‘ 1 fear 1 have tried you sadly ; forgive me for remaining so late. 

I could hardly be expected, at such a moment, to keep note of the 
flight of time. Good-night!” 

But to his surprise, the young girl asked him to resume his seat. 

“I want you,” she spoke low, but earnestly, “to make me a 
promise before we part to-night. You will, you must — ” 

“ If I can, you may rely upon me. ” 

“ It is necessary for both our sakes. 1 am grateful, believe me, 
for this new and great mark of your affection; the greatest a man 
can show to a woman. It surprised me beyond measure. 1 cannot 
tell why it should, but there, 1 give you my word that the thought 
of your loving me never entered my mind. I liave said sometimes 
to myself of late, ‘ 1 think he loves,’ and T wondered who it could 
be that had won your heart, and yet of whom you never spoke even 
to me. I supposed it was some London belle, and that probably 
your coming down here so suddenly to fish had something to do 
with it. Well, now that you have told me how it is, 1 wish you to 
know that I think you have done me a great honor and that I feel 
flattered at it— any girl would—” 

“ Flattered?” said Acton, rathei coldly. 


154 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ But to this promise,” she resumed. “ If after to-night we are 
to go on meeting, and 1 do hope most sincerely that we shall, you 
must givfe me your word never to renew the subject.” 

His eyes had been on the carpet as he listened to this somewhat 
lengthily prefaced demand. His glance now flashed up to heis as if 
she had stung him. 

“ What!” he exclaimed, “you might as well ask the sun not to 
shine.” 

“ Do not say so,” she pleaded, her brow contracting ominously. 
“ 1 shall not like you if you uselessly persevere, now that 1 have 
told you all about my state — that 1 have uttered my very last words 
on the matter.” 

“ I am sorry,” he said, with quiet determination, “ but I could 
not live without the hope of yet making you mine.” 

She rose and walked about. This, it nothing else, could agitate 
her still, then. 

“ Oh, no, no, no,” she went on, bending her head over her clasped 
hands, “you will change, undo all 1 have ever thought of you — 
make me think I have been wrong all these years as to your true 
nature. Oh, 1 will not condemn you rashly — to-night you are not 
master of yourself, 1 know; 1 feel that to morrow you will do as 1 
ask. Oh, tell me I am right.” 

“ 1 cannot, 1 shall never change.” 

She seemed to writhe under his immovability, attaching to it an 
importance which of itself it could not possess; at least not to her, not 
to the dying girl she proclaimed herself to be. Was she uncon- 
sciously beginning to feel that if she had been so deceived as to the 
true character of this man, then her confidence, which she had re- 
posed in him so implicitly all along, had, perchance, been misplaced 
— betrayed. 

She was growing seriously angry. 

“ Oh,” she cried, suddenly, “ it is-base, unmanly!” 

He thought the best way to deal with her was to laugh at it. 

“ Ha, ha, you foolish child! Come, it seems we cannot agree; 
will you let me go? Oh, here comes Lady Prendergast, ” as the old 
lady, thinking, no doubt, she had given the young people sutflcient 
law, serenely re-entered the apartment. Great was her surprise on 
observing her granddaughter’s extreme and unwonted excitement. 
She looked in a bewildered way from one to the other as if asking 
for some explanation. 

But Acton only shook her hand as though nothing of mark had 
happened, and without adding a word to "the conventional “ good 
night,” walked toward the door. Then he turned, and merely say- 
ing: 

“ Good-night, Miss Camilla,” calmly left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

The love-making of Lady Susan and her betrothed had gone on 
smoothly enough, and was chiefly marked by an utter and almost an 
ominous absence of those sweet quarrels which, we are told, 
strengthen love. 1 cannot say that neither cared enough about the 


SILYERMEAD. 


155 

other to quarrel, because the noble Susan Xvas, in her own way, 
very deeply enamored ot her swain. But even this strong feeling 
was so far like unto Horace’s apathetic tolerance of her, that it was 
perfectly unexacting, save as to the mere fact of liis presence. She 
was never happy with him out of her sight, but once in his com- 
pany, she required no more. Silence or talk, sense, or nonsense, 
laughter or gravity, all were equally welcome moods to this daughter 
of fashion, who was of an eminently practical turn of mind, and 
considered that ideals should be the exclusive property of painters, 
sculptors and poets. 

Far from her were all those thrills of joy, and pangs of sharpest 
doubt which alternate so distractingly in the breasts of the highly 
sensitive and imaginative when they truly love; and yet, just on this 
very account, does any fact pure and simple, some act about which 
it is impossible to take two views, disgust and enrage such a lover 
as Lady Susan, when it falls like a bombshell to disturb the even 
tenor of her placid, trustful love. 

Now, such a catastrophe had befallen her in the shape of a letter 
from Hiss Laffinch, who, for reasons very well known to herself, 
had chosen to tell her, as a bible truth, a thing which she herself 
only guessed ; which was, that Horace Brudenel had positively pro- 
posed to and been accepted by Miss Harding, at the Hasham ball, 
nnd that the engagement had by no means been broken oft at the 
time he began paying his marked addresses to his present betrothed. 

Lady Susan, like the rest of Miss Laffinch’s acquaintances, was 
too well aware of her evil ways to take anything for granted whicli 
she chose to affirm. Still she knew that the spinster was aware how 
very easily this piece of information could be put to the test, by the 
simple step of questioning Brudenell upon the matter, and precisely 
on this account did the news annoy Lady Susan, and rankle in her 
breast. It was not in Lord Caulfield’s daughter to take half meas- 
ures. These highly provoking* facts were either true or false. If 
the latter, she would get her father to indite such a letter to the 
Laffinch as would almost make her legret she had ever learnt (o 
write; if on the other hand the distressing news proved true, well, 
then her ladyship’s mind was not so thoroughly made up. Much 
would depend on bow Horace took the matter. At any rate, as the 
fair Susan sat alone in the Belgrave Square drawing-room expecting 
her affianced’s daily call, she was quite determined to submit the 
spiteful old maid’s epistle to the ordeal of his inspection. 

No sooner did the young man enter than he saw an ominous 
change in his mistress’s manner, and the barometer of her brow 
clearly pointed to “ stormy.” 

“ Why, Susan,” he exclaimed as they shook hands, ” what is the 
matter — not ill, I hope?” 

“ Oh no!” 

“ Something has happened?” 

“ Yes!” 

“ And you are put out, 1 am so sorry. Can 1 do anything?” 

“ Perhaps it is too late.” 

“ Pray explain. Who has dared to annoy you?” 

“ 1 — I have been veiy unhappy, and, it is about you.” 

What in the world can you mean?” cried Horace, his con- 


156 


SILVERMEAD. 


science as clear as crystal, for lie thought she must allude to some 
event of the last few clays. 

“ You see,” she began with a peculiar smile, “ 1 have heard some- 
thing about you — ” 

“Yes?’-’ 

‘ ‘ And the more 1 think of it the more put out 1 feel, because — 
Well, it is difficult to explain, but it is just because 1 have no right 
to complain, to be angry at it, only very much distressed, that makes 
it so hard to bear.’’ 

“ Perhaps it is not true.” 

“ I fear it is. But 1 do not see after all why we should not sit 
down, do you?” 

“ Not in the least,” and as they seated themselves he said: “ 1 am 
quite in the dark.” 

He might have added “quite unconcerned;” he was rather 
ashamed to feel so, but it was the fact. 

“ 1 suppose,” said Lady Susan, “ that if a man proposes to one 
and fulfills his contract, and subsequently makes an irreproachable 
husband, a girl has no real cause of complaint, and yet—” 

‘ ‘ Pray, pi ay, my dearest, come to the point. 1 cannot understand 
what good all this preamble can do.” 

“ lam just going to tell you, but as, 1 suppose, you have only 
done what you had a perfect right to do, 1 want you clearly to un- 
derstand that I quite recognize so much, before entering into the 
subject.” 

“ Well and good. Now for it.” 

Lady Susan hereupon drew Miss. Laffinch’s letter from her pocket,, 
and handed it to Horace, saying: 

“Read that. You can skip the fiist page, it only tells how re- 
luctant she feels to write what 1 know gives her the keenest enjoy- 
ment. ’ ’ 

Horace turned hastily to the signature. 

“ That poisonous old cat!” he exclaimed, with disgust. “ 1 hope 
you don’t believe a word she says?” 

“ Oh, 1 know her well, trust me; but the greatest story-tellers, you 
know, may flounder into the truth, once in a way.” 

By this time the young man was deep in the second page, and a 
mere glance at his face was .enough to confirm all his fiancee's fears. 
He grew suddenly scarlet. Probably no earthly event short of the 
death of Jack Forbes, now happily beyond the reach of a relapse, 
could have annoyed him more than what he mentally stigmatized as 
that “ old beast’s damned meddling.” 

Lady Susan said never a word. 

Without caring to wade to the end of the precious epistle, Horace 
rose, returned it to its owner without looking at her, and walked to 
the adjacent open window. His thoughts as he did so being: 

“ Why in the woild does this make me so wretched, since, alas, 

1 know 1 care so little for poor Susan?” 

Without turning his head, he said, aloud: 

“ It is true. 1 am not surprised that it annoys you, but what can 
I say?” 

“No. That is the worst of it,” said the girl, very sadly. “I 
told you I feared it was too late.” 


SILVERMEAD. 


157 

“ I hope/’ pursued Horace, staying whore ho was, “ that you do 
not doubt me— that you feel sure 1 did not begin to— show my ad- 
miration for you, until every spark of— of my feeling for Miss Hard- 
ing had died out?” 

”1 hope not, for your honor’s sake; but you must admit such 
very sudden quenching of one flame and growth of another is some 
tax upon one’s faith.” 

He did not know what to say. In truth Lady Susan’s remark 
was unanswerable. When “ words fail try action ” is, I believe, an 
old recipe in such cases. Turning back then into the room, Brude- 
nell seated himself by his betrothed’s side, slipped his right arm 
round her waist, and took her right hand with his left. 

She in no wise responded to his embrace, but at the same time 
neither did she repel him. 

They sat so for some seconds, then he said: 

“ 1 cannot bear to see you so put out, and for my sake.” 

She made no sign. 

“ Oh, hang it,” he thought, “ I wish she would speak! Row me, 
fly at me; anything better than the sulks. ” 

He made another trial. 

“You know, dearest, 1 am very young, and though I am quite 
steadied now, vou ought to look upon that little affair as a mere boy- 
ish freak.” 

At last Lady Susan did deign to speak, but I am not sure her 
words had not the effect of making poor Horace decide that of the 
two lie preferred her silence. She rose, but only to go as far as a 
neighboring high-backed chair, upon which she rested an elbow, 
and it w r as she now who looked out of the window. She was very 
miserable, the more so because there w T as nothing to be done. She- 
felt quite clearly, even now in the depth of her annoyance, that she 
could do nothing to risk losing Horace. She loved nim far too well 
for that. To use a vulgarism, much of the gilt was rudely removed 
from her gingerbread, yet it was her staff of life for all that. Still 
Lady Susan was not the woman, either now or ever, to pass over 
anything lightly, and was, indeed, one of those that only a very* 
reckless husband would risk offending after marriage. She rightly 
judged that Horace felt sufficiently ashamed of the part he had 
played to submit without kicking to a considerable amount of “ nag- 
ging,” both now and for some time to come, and she calmty decid- 
ed that it was but justice to him, as it was a satisfaction to heiself, 
to duly administer this condign castigation. 

This aristocratic young personage was utterly devoid of what is 
commonly understood by “temper.” Perhaps that is why many 
horses which were troublesome or even dangerous with male riders, 
grew lamb-like under her light yet determined hand. 

The quick heat to which less Olympian if more human natures 
are subject, the blaze-out- and-liave-done-with-it phase of anger, was 
something Lady Susan would never have stooped to. The victim 
might prefer it, to be sure, but that was one of the many reasons 
why her young ladyship dicl not. 

“ 1 must say,” she began, “ 1 think you ought to have told me 
about Miss Harding. 1 do not mean that it was dishonorable not to 
do so, but certainly it was the more proper and considerate course.’ * 


158 


SILTERMEAD. 


“I cannot agree with you, dear,” said Horace. “In the first 
place, is there not something impertinent in speaking of a bygone 
love affair to a person one is endeavoring to win?” 

“ I should not have minded that. It is worse to hear it as I do 
now.” 

“ And then,” pursued Horace, “ I do not see how a man can tell 
anj T one, even the woman he means to marry, that he has been ac- 
cepted by another. Although 1 had utterly ceased to care for Miss 
Harding ’’—there w~as a slight tremor in his voice as he said this, 
albeit he believed he spoke truly, “ that is no excuse for betraying 
what I suppose she naturally" keeps a profound secret. No girl 
would wish it to be known that she had once accepted a fellow, 
when it is settled he is going to be married to some one else.” 

This was unanswerable, and Lady Susan, womanlike, went off 
upon a new track. 

“ At any rate, I know it now, so there is nothing to divulge. Tell 
me how it was, since she accepted you, that you did not marry 
Camilla Harding?” 

This was a most natural question; yet it took the young man 
wholly unawares. He colored up in a way to add greatly to his 
fiancee's uneasiness. She pursued: 

“ Horace, there is evidently much more under all this even than 1 
thought a moment ago. Listen. As you and 1 are to be husband 
and wife, why not tell me the whole truth?” 

“ The truth as regards myself, by all manner of means, but as to 
the young girl, no!” 

“ Is the truth then so damaging to her?” 

Poor Brudenell! It was fated that the most natural queries 
should take him unaw T ares. Men have settled, I believe, that it is 
highly honorable to lie in defense of a woman’s honor. But even 
this simple privilege was unavailable to Horace; for, if he made her 
out immaculate, where was his justification for breaking off the 
match? On the other hand if he said or implied that the rupture 
had been of Camilla’s making, the falseness of such a plea might at 
any moment be made patent to Lady Susan. 

As to even now so much as hinting that Miss Harding had proved 
herself unworthy of his love — an unknown voice within the core of 
his manhood loudly forbade it! At length after several more ques- 
tions from his fair inquisitor, or rather after the same thing had 
been asked in several forms with exasperatingly calm pertinacity, he 
broke out with some warmth, in which was discernible just the 
slightest spark of auger. 

“ My dearest Susan, do, I implore you, be reasonable. No past 
was ever more completely the past, than mine. For heaven’s sake, 
remember that it is with me you are concerned, not with her.” 

“ Oh, the past is all very well now,” said the lady, “it is not 
about your feelings of the present that I feel concerned; but unless 
you tell me, at least, the chief points of what occurred, I do not see 
how 1 can have any security, any peace, as to the future. I ask you 
how do you suppose it will be when you and I are thrown with 
Camilla Harding over and over again in society, cooped up in coun- 
try houses and so forth?” 

“ I will tell you— I was going to tell you, if you had listened.” 


SILVERMEAD. 


159 


“ 1 shall not interrupt you.” 

“ To tell you all that you can possibly have any business td know 
—1 mean, my share in this affair. But you must promise me that 
if I suppress certain details regarding the young lady, you will not 
run away with the erroneous idea that those would prove in any 
way disparaging to her, if they should ever happen to transpire. ” 

“ 1 promise.’ ’ 

“ Very well, then, here it is. 1 took a fancy to get spooney about 
this Miss Harding, whatever term you like, at a country ball.” 

“ And you told her that you never met anything so divine in your 
life, ” sneered the lady. 

“ Very good. Since you know all about it, I don’t see the use — ” 

“Goon.” 

“ A very few days were enough to convince me that — that 1 had 
made a mistake and could never — that we could never — be happy 
together. 7 ’ 

“ Gently, gently. You have not proposed yet!” 

“ Why,' you were very good enough to supply that part of the 
narrative.” 

“ Oh, how veiy severe. And I suppose after asking to be her 
slave, you soon begged your liberty back again.” 

“ Camilla—” 

“ Camilla?” 

“ Camilla Harding — Miss Harding, if you like it better — knows 
quite well of the — circumstances — ” 

“ Better be careful.” 

“ The circumstances,” almost snapped out Horace, now consider- 
ably irritated as well as unhappy, “ which caused me to change my 
mind, although she little thinks that I know them.” 

He felt he was floundering, and that his listener knew him so to 
be. Oh, how he blessed his future mother-in-law, who now sailed 
beaming into the room, and forced the young people to accompany 
her to a flower show. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Camilla kept her word, and on the night of Cyril’s proposal slept 
neither better nor worse than usual. 

Everything appeared to her so uniinpoitant now, so dwarfed, that 
the tvhole game of life, with its millions of immortal and intelligent 
beings hanging feverishly upon hopes and fears concerning so many 
pouuds sterling, or a few years to be spent in this way or the other, 
seemed to Camilla’s spiritualized nature positively crime. Alas! 
she little dreamed what was still in store for her this side of the 
grave. She knew not j r et that nothing ever wears out or diminishes 
our capacity for suffering. That Protean monster no sooner loses 
his power to sting in one shape that he assumes another. Camilla 
naturally supposed that because her one great sorrow, the grief which 
had wrecked her life, had almost ceased to be more than a theoret- 
ical pain, a dark memory, and because the rise and fall of stocks or 
even dynasties, nay, whirlwinds and earthquakes, looked to her as 
merest trifles in their insignificance, that therefore, she was torture- 
proof; since she told herself that mere physical pain, however un- 


160 


SILYEItMEAD. 


pleasant, coukl hardly seem unbearable after the mental agony she 
had gone through. In this last respect she was right, if only for 
the reason that, in her enfeebled state any acute bodily torments 
must at least have had the palliation of brevity, for it would take 
but little now to kill her outright. Poor child, she had still to learn, 
that there is a torture, an earthly hell, worse than any heretofore 
known to her wildest thoughts. 

Lady Prendergast was naturally anxious to learn the result of the 
proposal which Acton had, she thought so honorably, submitted to 
her approval, and during the first hours of the following morning, 
she waited patiently in the hope that Camilla might speak about it 
of her own accord. 

But the girl made no allusion to it whatever; so that as the tw r o 
sat at luncheon after the servants had left the room, the old lady 
said : 

“ Come, Camilla, 1 was in hopes you would have had something 
to tell me to-day. ’ ’ 

And she watched her face to see whether her words produced any 
-change there; but no, Camilla was feeding Rolf with biscuits, and, 
as she replied it was with the air and tone of one who had been ex- 
pecting the question now to be answered. 

“ Yes, gran’ma, 1 know what you mean about last night— Cyril 
Acton. 1 am so sorry — I mean for him.” 

“ It is no, then?” 

Camilla gave a little astonished laugh as she lifted her eyes for the 
first time from the deer-hound to the speaker. 

“ Now, gran’ma, am 1 a likely person to love twice?” 

“ Oh, as you will, darling. 1 am sure 1 would not take the re- 
sponsibility" of urging any girl — much less my own little pet, to a 
marriage distasteful to her. I am sorry it is as you say; a littlo for 
his sake, poor boy, but much, much more for yours. I am, I own, 
disappointed, but what of that? Life is one long disappointment — 
mine has been so at least!” and she sighed audibly. 

The girl rose and went to her, saying affectionately — 

“Dearest! This makes matters worse still. Do not take it to 
heart. It never entered my head that you would doubt for a mo- 
ment what my reply must be. That you sanctioned his suit, well 
and good; if lie chose to honor me with a proposal why should you 
:;r event him? But that you could have the faintest hope of my be- 
• oming the Honorable Mrs. Cyril Acton, and one day Viscountess 
Hammersley. Oh, it really, really is too comical by far.” 

“ 1 cannot see it.” No, her ladyship was never quick at seeing a 
joke. “ Constancy, my darling, is a lovely virtue; no one admires 
it more than 1 do, but really when a lover is on the verge of marry- 
ing some one else — ” 

“ Oh,” interrupted the girl, “ as a matter of principle— of choice, 

I grant you if that were all I would marry anybody 1 pleased to-mor- 
row morning.” 

“ Then why decline to do so? I do not comprehend. ” 

“ It is purely a matter of feeling. I feel as sick of marrying as 
though 1 had had twenty husbands. How shall I make you under- 
stand? When 1 loved Horace Brudenell 1 felt that to become his 
wife was the highest earthly happiness. Well, now, if Lady Susan 


SILYERMEAD. 


161 

threw him over and he came and humbled himself at my feet and 
implored my forgiveness— well, it is rash, I suppose, to say, for 
•certain, what one would do under any circumstances that are not 
the actual ones, but 1 honestly think that even if 1 forgave him I 
should never marry him.” 

“ And 1 feel sure you would.” 

“ No, for 1 could never forget that ho had behaved heartlessly and 
dishonorably. ’ ’ 

“ No doubt he has, but, my child, you would' remember that to 
"* err is human, to forgive divine.’ ” 

“ That is very well, up to a certain point. To be severe upon mere 
faults would argue that I had none myself,” and Camilla laughed 
most heartily at the notion. '* But just as you would not forgfve a 
burglar or forger to the extent of asking him to your tea party, so 1 
think any woman a fool that would wed a man who had no fine 
sense of honor. Dear me, with Horace’s breeding and education, 
the way he has treated me is, at least, as criminal as many a case of 
manslaughter in low lifo.” And she added to herself, “ for he has 
killed me,” and rising, she paced the room, betrayed for the mo- 
ment into a passing and most unusual excitement. 

Have we not all experienced how different is a case, even analyzed 
and dwelt upon for weeks, to one stated viva voce before an intelli- 
gent listener. 

It now surprised Camilla herself to find, as she painted her wrongs 
in words, how indefensible was the position of her late lover, and 
how shameful the injuries under which she was sinking. 

After a few minutes she resumed her seat from sheer fatijrue— so 
little tired her new — and said in a low tone: 

“ But, gran’ma, dear, however my eyes may have been opened to 
the real character of him I thought so perfect, the vision of what 1 
. believed him . fofohas so dazzled my sight, that, for life, 1 am blinded 
— matrimonially speaking, to the merits of all other men.” 

And she bent her pretty head on the old lady’s shoulder. It was 
only after a little pause, filled up with caresses, that the latter spoke: 

“ Every word you say, darling, is natural from the young girl 
point of view. 1 wonder if there would be any use in my trying to 
make you see any other. You children, most of you at least, will 
look at marriage from the romantic side alone. To you it must bo 
either rapture or misery. Now, to us experienced ones it has quite 
another aspect, for in fully — How many shall 1 say to be under 
the mark? Well, in nineteen cases out of twenty it is neither one 
nor the other.” 

“ Then I do not know,” said Camilla, “ of what stuff ‘ nineteen 
couples out of twenty,’ must be made, to'be chained to an individual 
for life — ” 

” I knew what you would say,” interrupted the other, “ but the 
truth and explanation of the mystery is this. It is a choice of evils. 
The life of a single man or a single woman is not usually either 
black or rose color; it is gray. The immense majority have not the 
option of changing it for a life of married ecstasy; human angels 
are too rare, but they meet with another being of the opposite sex, 
and it occurs to both that perchance their lots when united may 
6 


1G2 


SIEVE RME AD. 


prove of a slightly pinker gray than heretofore. Thereupon they 
marry.” 

Camilla laughed low, but with some heartiness, for the idea 
tickled her. 

“ I never saw it before in that light,” she said, “ but I quite be- 
lieve you are right and have found the raison d'etre of the great 
majority of marriages. But, dear gran’ma, you yourself only said 
‘ nineteen out of twenty,’ and depend upon it 1 was born a number 
twenty, and could never be one ot the married gray sisterhood, oh, 
never. ’ ’ 

Lady Prendergast’s heart sunk within her. She could not confide 
to Camilla the chief thought which the girl’s refusal gave rise to. 
Had Acton succeeded in so far winning her as to persuade her to 
marry him, even though without much love, it meant w T hole vol- 
umes, and so, unhappily, did his failure. In the one case recon- 
ciliation with life, a wish to grow strong and well, with possibly the 
salutary blessings of maternity looming in the future. In the other, 
the actual case, it meant despair. Yes, conceal it how she might, 
the last hope to which the old lady had clung was now snapped, 
for ever, and she mentally beheld Camilla gliding rapidly down the 
fell slope that leads to the grave, a smile upon her lips, and stretch- 
ing out no hand to save herself. 

But even now, her great concern was to conceal from the girl this 
new anguish, lest Camilla’s gentle heart should thereby be harrowed 
anew. It w T as with an attempt therefore at something cheerful in 
her tone that she said after a pause: 

“ And how, 1 wonder, will it be in future between you and Mr. 
Acton! Will he remain down here and continue to see you merely 
as of old, on the footing of a friend?” 

“ I hardly know what to think.” 

“ And you wish — ” 

“ 1 really believe 1 wish wiiatever is best for himself. When lie 
has had time to reflect calmly and to let his feelings cool down, 1 am 
quite sure he will give up all idea of renewing his suit. He will 
either go away or he will tell me 1 need not fear his ever returning 
to the subject" ’ ’ 

“ You really think this?” 

“ Oh, yes, gran’ma, for he is a gentleman. More than that, he 
has, 1 feel certain, a kind heart.” 

“ All that is very true in theory, but still — ” 

“Yes?” 

“ Well, lovers are strange beings, and it is never safe to apply the 
ordinary rules in judging what the} 7 - are likely to do.” 

“ Well, if Cyril is so unlike what 1 think him, if he is so lacking 
in dignity, and — and kindness as to annoy me with his suit after the 
way I spoke last night—” 

“ Then?” 

“ Well, then in spite of old times and his many friendly offices, I 
shall feel 1 have been quite deceived in his character, and shall re- 
fuse to see him any more.” 

And Camilla’s countenance flushed up for a moment as she con- 
templated so unwelcome a possibility. 

“ Ho not excite yourself, darling. 1 only meant that young men 


SILVERMEAD. 


163 


sire so accustomed never to take ‘ no ’ for an answer, to look upon 
perseverance as a virtue, and so forth—” 

“ And in ordinary cases they are quite right; but gran’ma, what- 
ever Cyril Acton may be, he is not stupid. For a dull man there 
might be some excuse, but he knows well enough that I meant all 1 
said, and that nothing— no, nothing in this wide world, will ever 
change me.” 


CHARTER XXXIV. 

While the above conversation was being held. Cyril Acton was 
actually doing what he had ostensibly come into these parts express- 
ly to do. He was catching trout. He rightly judged that it could 
serve no wise end to present himself to-day at Silvermead; he was 
not in the mood to sit idly still and brood, and so, for once, he be- 
took him, with some little gusto, to the sport he loved not. He had 
spent a restless night, and the exertion of whipping the waters for 
many hours would, lie calculated— he was always calculating some- 
thing — tire him nicely for the following nigiit. 

He felt somewhat humiliated, of course, but had no touch of de- 
spair. Why, indeed, should he, with such a fine game as still was 
bis? Only it is so much pleasanter to succeed by fair means than 
by foul. Up in London things were, apparently, going quite to his 
bent ; at any rate as far as Ins dear friend Cave Harding was con- 
cerned. 

As he rested awhile to partake of his frugal luncheon, he re-read 
the following letter received from that worthy by the morning’s 
post. 

* “ — Club. July 20th, 188—. 

“ My dear Cyril, — Why, by all the devils, did you rush from 
town? Like a true sportsman, I own I am superstitious, and glory 
in that much derided quality. 1 am certain that your departure it 
was which brought me bad luck, and, what is more— and I must beg 
you to mark it — is that 1 shall have no gleam of fortune till you re- 
turn. 

(‘ Idiot!’ muttered Cyril, ‘ and he believes it too!’) He went on. 

“ Racing or cards it is all alike. I never see a trump, and it is 
enough that a horse carries my money to secure his defeat. 

(‘Hum!’ thought the reader, ‘I always said he didn’t cheat.’) 

“ Things are really getting to such a pass (pursued Cave), that in 
a few days 1 shall not know which way to turn. Y ou see 1 took your 
advice, admirable in itself, and I am sure most kindly meant, and 
paid off a lot of old debts with my little winnings. Now the tide 
lias turned, and I heartily wisli 1 had been less magnanimous. 

‘ ‘ To pass to more pleasing subjects, 1 am awaiting your next 
letter with sanguine interest. 1 greatly admire your delicacy and 
patience in not precipitating matters with my darling child. Let her 
unconsciously become so fond of your company that she may almost 
insensibly awake to the fact that she cannot do without it. You tell 
me in your last that if you have, so far, seen little in her to confirm, 
neither has there been anything to diminish, your hopes. As soon 
as you risk an appeal you will, of course, let me know the result, 
whatever it be. 1 can only believe in one issue, and feel already 


164 


SILVERMEAD. 


toward you as a father. There. I am weeping as I write this. My 
fervent blessing be ever with you — with j r ou and my Camilla. 

“ Tours ever and most heartily, 

“ Cave Harding/’ 

(‘ Maudlin old blockhead!’ growled Cyril. ‘ However, the post- 
script goes far to redeem the tears, and the blessed blessing. Here 
it is.’) 

“ P.S. — Dear boy, you know 1 never do anything of this sort but 
with extreme reluctance, so do, do forgive me. Since writing the 
above, 1 have been right through my accounts again, and with the 
greatest care, and 1 grieve to say that unless you can nobly assist 
me this last time — on m} r honor 1 will never ask you again — with 
three hundred pounds, 1 shall not be able to settle at Tattersall’s on 
Monday after paying my little club debts. 

“ Nothing, believe me nothing (twice underlined) could induce me 
to make this appeal to your generous heart, but that my darling' 
Camilla is, I trust, shortly to bear your name, and thus, for all our 
sakes, her poor old father must not disgrace it. Heaven knows this 
is the truth. ’ ’ 

“ Balm, balm!” almost chuckled Acton, as he folded and replaced 
the precious missive in his breast pocket. “ His run of bad luck has 
come most opportunely, and I would not it were otherwise for 
twenty thousand golden sovereigns fresh from the Mint. Oho, my 
gentle lady! we will see how your exquisitely proud and thrice sen- 
sitive feelings will endure these little money transactions ; for know 
of them you shall, though not from me. On this head, all 1 have 
to fear is that Dame Fortune should take it into her giddy head 
suddenly to smile on the old rip. Goodwood is at hand, and 1 
know he will plunge upon Alcestos for the cup. He told me in his 
last that it could not lose. The ‘ talent, ’ however, are against the 
horse to a man; and while last week, seven to two was hardly ob- 
tainable, five to one now goes a-begging. 1 shall send him the three 
centuries, of course, in return for which he must write me some- 
thing for Camilla. Hallo, though, there’s my word of honor! not 
that 1 mind, but she would. No, the letter must be ‘ dodgy ’ as 
they say. 

“ Camilla! Yes, by to-morrow, 1 should say, she will be ripe for 
a visit; 1 will astonish her by the contrast. The lover utterly 
- dropped! In his place the cheerful contented friend. Nothing liko 
throwing a girl off her guard, a girl or any one else, as to that. My 
next step or two require thought, yes, a deuced deal of thought. 
Well, what ot that? There is little else to do down here. If 1 
hadn’t that letter to write after my lonely dinner, to old Cave, I 
swear I don’t know how 1 should get through the evening.” 

So saying, he rose, and again betook him to plying the supple 
hickory, thinking the while, however, far less of beguiling the finny 
and ruby spotted beauties of the stream, than of how best to circum- 
vent that larger game called man, which he was never tired of tell- 
ing himself alone deserved the honor of his cunning. 

That night he sent ofil a letter to Cave as follows: 

“ My dear Harding,— I am sincerely sorry to learn that your 
perspicacity and other talents have not been meeting with the sue- 


SILVEKMEAD. 


165 


cess they so well deserve. This sort of thing, however, cannot last. 
With your gifts, especially perseverance, the tide must shortly turn 
in your favor, as it has done so often before. 1 do not like to in- 
close so large a check , but you shall have the money of course. I 
am writing to my banker’s by this post about selling out. 

“ With regard to your sweet daughter, 1 must tell you that 1 have 
at last declared myself. She has not yet accepted me, but I see no 
cause whatever to fear but what my suit will shortly prove success- 
ful. Indeed 1 may say to you, that when presently your influence 
shall be brought to bear in a direct form, to which end 1 am busily 
placing irons in the fire, I feel confident of overcoming any little 
hesitation that may yet possess her. On this much-desired consum- 
mation my hopes are founded, far less upon my own poor merits 
than on Camilla’s affectionate heart, which will certainly prompt 
her to conform to your wishes and to the almost commands, I may 
say, of her devoted grandmother. Whatever Lady Prendergast’s 
conduct in the past may have been toward yourself, and I know too 
well that you have just cause to complain ot her harshness and rash 
judgment, still, she has acquired, of late, not only a great moral in- 
fluence over your daughter, but an undoubted place in her affections. 

“ This last was, you will remember, in old days her untiring en- 
deavor, and she has probably now to thank the force of circum- 
stances rather than any effort of her own, for the success she has at 
last obtained. 

‘ ‘ Another grand point in my favor is that Camilla has utterly 
ceased to care about that fellow, Brudenell, who treated her so 
shamefully; so that even if he were not going to marry Lady Susan 
Giaye for her thousands and her title, 1 should have nothing to fear 
in that quarter. But there can be no question that his behavior 
offended her pride very deeply, and, together with her imaginary 
love for him, had an ill effect upon her health, the nerves especially, 
from which she has even now far from recovered. Lady P. makes 
no secret of her alarm concerning your daughter’s state, and when 
1 obtained her zealous support before proposing to Camilla, the old 
lady instinct ively told me that she saw no hope of saving her except 
in my inducing her to marry me, and then taking her off to some 
bright and southern spot far from the scenes connected with her sup- 
posed misfortunes. ‘ Foi,’ she added, ‘ if she continues to droop and 
mope at Silvermead the doctors make no secret that she is lost.’ 

“ This being the position of matters, you will, 1 am sure, not hes- 
itate, my dear Cave, to place yourself entirely in my hands. 1 am 
now working the old lady with a view of getting you down here. It 
is difficult but feasible. ‘ The moment she sees Camilla’s good in 
anything she cannot bring herself to resist it. To this end I want 
you to send me, by return of post, the following little note to show 
her. 

“ ‘ My dear Cyril,— I am so alarmed at what you tell me, guarded 
and most considerately put as it is, of my darling Camilla’s health, 
that 1 implore you to exert any influence you may have with Lady 
Prendergast to induce her to let me see my beloved child, if but for 
one hour. You tell me that her ladyship has been kinder to you 
than you can find words to express. She will, therefore, I fervently 


SILYERMEAD. 


166 

ventuie to hope, forgive and even grant this appeal. 1 will make 
auy promise she may require and agree to absolutely any conditions 
she may think fit to impose. 

“ * Awaiting your answer with terrible anxiety, 

‘“1 remain-’ 

“You must excuse me, my dear Cave, if 1 seem to dictate the 
very terms you are to use, but you see 1 am a witness of the old 
lady’s present mood, and therefore the best judge of how to lead 
her. 

As to the three hundred pounds, I make little doubt but 1 shall 
have it in time for you to take down to Tattersall’s on Monday. 

“ Meanwhile, 1 remain your affectionate son-in-law elect, 

“ C. A.” 

And having rather amused himself over the concoction of the 
above, the young man retired to his rustic couch, and enjoyed an 
unbroken rest of some eight hours. The following day he presented 
himself at Silvermead with the accustomed offering of trout and 
nothing unaccuslomed whatever in his air or demeanor. 

In general, persons who have no heart are seldom good company 
in small retired circles. Acton, however, made up for this deficiency 
by his extreme ease. Always polished as some precious stone — 
bright, too, like it— he could the better afford to be also as cold as the 
emerald or ruby. He had eminently that element of success in 
human affairs, the power or gift of not worrying himself or other’s. 
While realizing to the full the most alarming dangers and guarding 
against catastrophe to the utmost, he was, so to speak, without fear, 
or to be more exact, without the fear which is felt by the body and 
becomes patent to the eyes of others. 

Camilla could not but feel puzzled on finding the man who had so 
passionately set forth his ardent love, wild hopes, the agony of not 
winning her, ana had frankly refused, upon her almost solemn ad- 
juration, to renounce his suit, now suddenly relapse into the serene 
friend of her childhood; and, albeit her experience was not large, an 
intuitive penetration made her ask herself whether Cyril had not 
been more probably acting during his love scene rather than now. 

It did not occur to her innocence to suspect that he had been play- 
ing a part then as well as now. What she hoped was that, while 
quite sincere in asking her to be his wife, he had greatly exaggerate 
cd, though perhaps unintentionally, alike his passion and his suffer- 
ings; that, in a word, he had deceived himself while not wishing to 
deceive her. She also well-nigh persuaded herself that reflection, 
during his brief absence, had brought good counsel; and that deli- 
cacy and taste coming to the fore, she would run no risk of the seri- 
ous annoyance which her old playmate must inflict upon her, should 
he ever again venture to ploy the wooer. 

Still, when all is said, the girl was conscious, she could hardly 
tell why, that Cyril Acton had, by his proposal, and even more by 
the manner of it, lost ground in tier feelings and good opinion which 
lie would never recover. 

But, to invalids, what is good for them has fortunately often a 
certain attraction ; and so, despite tlie above change for the w T orst in 
her sentiments regarding him, the girl felt still that it was less de- 


SILYERMEAD. 


167 

pressing to be a party of three than of two. I believe it was purely 
in that sense that she would, at this period, have regretted his de- 
parture. He helped to amuse her gran’ma, and that was something. 

Camilla, you see, had herself become like an old person now. 
She had not ceased to feel — that can only come with death; but 
everything she experienced was on such a small and absurdly 
— for a girl — restricted scale, that her emotions were truly to be 
compared to those of a woman of ninety. She still preferred sun- 
shine to rain, flowers to weeds, the rattle of Cyril’s clever talk dur- 
ing a portion of the day to too much silence, or tete-d tete prosing. 
That was all. 

And so the first few days went by. Needless to say that the letter 
ordered from poor Cave Harding, and copied verbatim, arrived with 
touching punctuality. To be sure, it contained nothing whifch hia 
own inclination might not have prompted; but had it been far other- 
wise, 1 am afraid to see what sentences, even about his Camilla, the- 
poor gamester might not have been goaded into inditing, in fear lest 
he might not be sent the three hundred pounds which Acton so- 
artfully let him divine were probably dependent on his compliance. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Acton did not find his task with Lady Prendergast nearly so hard 
a one as he had prepared for. 

She was not a woman to be obdurate, nor to indulge in personal 
antipathy or vindictiveness, except when she conceived she was 
obeying the stern behests of duty. What had ever been prominent 
in her mind, in her long and obdurate hostility toward Cave Hard- 
ing, was the harm and disgrace which his courses and associates- 
might bring upon Camilla and the impediment these might prove to 
settling the girl creditably in life. And now all that was over. 
Lady Prendergast saw her beloved one fading away like some lovely 
dissolving view, and knew only too well that it was a mere race be- 
tween them to the grave. Through her long life she had been a de- 
vout Christian; and now, as she felt drawing to its close, she oft- 
times daied to hope she caught faint and fitful gleams of that Land 
of Promise which she humbly trusted would ere long be her home. 
These gusts, these wafted essences, which ever and anon came to 
fan her pain-fevered brow, chiefly during or after prayer, tended 
more and more to make her blot out all past wongs, real or imagin- 
ary, and even yearn for opportunities of cherishing those whom she 
had been wont to regard as her enemies. 

“ Oh, let him come by all means,” she had exclaimed, somewhat 
astonishing Cyril by interrupting his long chain of carefully pre- 
pared arguments. “ Who knows but seeing him agaiu, forgiven by 
me, and, God grant it, repentant, Camilla may wish to live for his 
sake if not for ours.” And the formerly hard old lady felt, as she 
said those last words, the old wild jealous revolt within her; but 
valiantly she subdued the feeling. 

Her allusion to poor Cave’s penitence was due to Cyril. He had 
prefaced his appeal by drawing a graphic and purely imaginary pict- 
ure of his raffish friend’s conversion. Now that it seemed to him 


SILVERMEAD. 


168 

lie might have done without it, he bitterly repented of his lost 
trouble, for if Camilla’s father, even on his best behavior, should 
presently fail to do justice to the cleverly devised fiction, Cyril’s 
fraud would soon be seen through by the still quick-witted matron, 
and do him no good in her esteem. It was a maxim with this gene- 
rally adroit plotter as 1 think 1 have said before, never to deceive 
unnecessarily. He now thought well to premise thus: 

“ If, dearest Lady Prendergast, you should still find in him traces 
of the old leaven — and Rome, you know, was not built in a day, be- 
lieve me his heart is in the right place; at least so I devoutly trust 
and believe.” 

“ And when would you propose that 1 receive him?” 

“ Why, the sooner the kinder, both to him and Camilla. * Who 
gives quickly gives twice over,’ as the Latins have it.” 

“ Shall 1 ask him here on a visit?” 

This was so much more than Acton had dreamt of that it almost 
took away his breath. An intuitive feeling told him that he had 
better not accept so much all at once. He said : 

“ Oh, Lady Prendergast, there is no measure to your bounty. I 
never contemplated such extreme goodness. But no, my dear friend 
Harding is no Sybarite. He has long been accustomed to rough it. 
There is a spare room at the rambling old farm where I am staying; 
let him come down to me there, at any rate for the present.” 

‘‘ I cannot see, 1 am sure,” went on the other, good-naturedly, 
4 ‘ why you should not both stay at Silvermead, until Camilla is — 
better. With her father under the same roof, your being here would 
be strictly correct. ’ ’ 

“ Dearest friend, how shall I thank you?” 

“It is I, on the contrary, wno am deeply grateful to you, Mr. 
.Acton, for suggesting this reconcilation, perhaps too long deferred. 

1 thought I saw T it cost you much to propose it.” 

“ Because even 1 did not know the depth of your nobleness. But 
I am only the more careful not to abuse it. For the present, at any 
rate, 1 will ask Harding to stay at the farm; later on, w r e will see.” 

“ As you will, dear friend.” 

“ One favor more. 1 see Camilla coming in. May I be so selfish 
as to claim the pleasure of imparting to her the news of your gener- 
osity? Oh, how' she will love you!” 

” By all means, so run along and meet her.” 

He waited for no second bidding, and accosted Camilla upon the 
lawn, with, 

“ You see I am an earlier visitor than usual to-day. 1 have a piece 
of news which will startle and delight even you.” 

The girl flushed up, but that meant nothing. She did so now 
many times a day for little or no. apparent cause. 

“ Delight me?” she said, surprised, yet indifferent. 

“ Yes, I say it confidently, and to such a degree that 1 am afraid 
you will reproach me with not breaking it to you gently.” 

‘‘ Indeed! 1 am still more astonished. Bad news may require 
breaking, but surely not good news. Can that ever be knowm too 
soon, or too suddenly? But speak, for 1 cannot imagine what you 
can possibly have to tell me, that is to make me so dangerously joy- 
ful. Ah, it is a joke, is it not?” 


SILVERMEAD. 


1G& 


Acton put on an offended air. 

“ A joke! Do you think me capable — ?” 

“ Oh, only to amuse me.” 

“ Do believe me this is something most important.” 

“ And about me! Affecting me personally?” 

“Yes, very much indeed.” 

She laughed, the idea appeared to her so droll. She asked: 

“ Have 1 come into a fortune? 1 am afraid 1 should not care for 
that, at least, only for the sake of — O, 1 know, 1 have guessed. 
There, am 1 not clever? It is something about my dear papa.” 

Cyril nodded. 

“Oh, but what? You must not keep me in suspense.” 

Her face fell. 

“ It is not that he has won money? That would not delight me.” 

“ On the contrary, he has lost some; does that suit you better?” 

“ No, no, but — ” pursued the girl, her expression very serious, 
even pained. “ 1 thought — you know you gave your word.” 

“ And I have kept it. Really, Miss Harding, what do you take 
me for?” 

He said this lightly, and she at once looked relieved. 

“ Forgive me,” she said. “ What was 1 thinking of to imagine 
for a moment that you could forget! But this news — this news!” 

“ Your dear grandmamma has asked your father to come and see 
you here. He begged me to try whether she would consent to an 
interview, and Lady Prendergast, nobly forgetting all differences, 
at once expressed a wish that both Mr. Harding and myself should 
take up our abode here. ” 

The tears rushed to Camilla’s eyes. Knowing her grandmamma 
as she did, this complete abandonment of the policy of years, this 
utter yielding up of that iron will, and for love of herself, as sho 
well knew, was to the girl’s mind something ineffably touching. 
She wanted instantly to take the old lady in her arms, thank Heaven 
that the last barrier between them was broken down, and weep out 
her thanks upon her bosom. 

She could now, indeed, love her without reserve. 

“ And you have done this — forme,” she said, giving her hand 
again to Cyril. 

It was, of course, his cue to make the most capital he could out 
of the matter, but his cleverness told him that this was best to be 
done by modestly affecting to ascribe all merit to others, and depre- 
cating the idea that he deserved excessive thanks. 

“1 merely endeavored,” he said, “to carryout your father’s 
earnest request that he might see you again on any terms. Lady 
Prendergast’s own generous heart, and her deep love for you, have 
done the rest.” 

“ It is very well for you to put it in that way; but I am confident — 
1 take nothing from my gran’ma’s goodness 'in saying that without 
your zeal, and also your delicate tact, all might have failed. Now 
do not deny it. That is my conviction, and in it 1 remain for ever 
—mind, for ever.” 

And she laughed with the drops still dancing in her eyes. 

Then off she went to do her other thanksgiving. 

Oh, a few months back— nay, a few weeks— how she would havo 


SILYERMEAD. 


170 

tripped and bounded on such an errand! Now she wended her way 
with the same staid and prematurely feeble step, which had become 
her habitual pace; in fact, the only one at her command. It was 
still graceful and light, but had a decided resemblance to what we 
instinctively associate with the gliding of a ghost. 

Acton remained for awhile, sauntering among the flower beds and 
butterflies. He told himself that he had decidedly “ scored,” as he 
put it. Presently he joined the..ladies within, and agreed to stay for 
dinner. The letter sent oil that afternoon to the prodigal father, and 
his coming arrival, formed the staple of conversation among the trio. 
A gayer tone than usual reigned around, and the hours flew by more 
pleasantly than they had been wont to do for some time. 

Although Cyril had written the letter which bade him come, Hard- 
ing felt on receiving it, that his answer could only be addressed to 
liis late noble enemy, as he mentally termed her. A very creditable 
-epistle it was which the old lady received from him by return of 
post; and if the beautiful and touching sentiments which it so lavish- 
ly contained were in reality somewhat wanting in the grand quality 
■of soundness, I can venture to affirm that no one would have been 
more honestly astonished to hear this than the writer. Like his mis- 
sive to Acton, this sheet "was abundantty stained with tears, which 
had flowed straight from his heart. It no man at times could appear 
more angry, so none was ever more leady to forget his anger and all 
offenses which had caused it. It may sound paradoxical, but there 
are persons almost too ready to forgive. We can hardty help feel- 
ing that what is performed with such startling readiness, may not be 
so perfectly done as we could wish. 

Probably Lady Prendergast took the letter in its best light, telling 
herself that it was as good an ebullition as the writer could com- 
mand. Camilla, spite of her cleverness, was, with the charming 
partiality of youth and her sweet filial blindness, utterly taken in by 
it, and looked on it as a monument of feeling erected upon the tomb 
of all possible parental peccadilloes and shortcomings. 

Nothing worth noting intervened between its coming and the ar- 
rival of the writer. He came down four days later, and having hap- 
pened to win a few sovereigns the nigfct before, Cave was in the 
highest spirits. Acton drove to meet and bring him from the station, 
and both men came to dinner at Silver mead. Of course there was 
nothing like a fuss or a scene. The father kissed his child and 
shook hands with Lady Prendergast as if he had dined with them 
every day for a month past. His spirits chanced to be up, and so all 
his alarm about Camilla’s health was forgotten. 

It had been carefully arranged by the women that the first meet- 
ing since the girl’s illness, and, as far as the elder knew, for well- 
nigh a year, should take place in a half light, lest the father should 
be shocked at her cliauged appearance, but it is doubtful whether 
the precaution was necessary with this easily elated, if equally 
-easily despondent, man. Camilla was somewhat flushed, that was 
enough. To-niglit only one color existed for the strange man, 
^either positively or figuratively — couleur de rose. 

Poor Camilla! She was as happy on this evening. as it was perhaps 
possible — or at least as she believed it possible— for anything to make 
her. And yet that was not very. Certainly I he next best thing to 


SILVERMEAD. 


171 

being happy is fancying that we are so— if, indeed, this be not rather 
a distinction without a difference, and our little heroine got as far 
to-nisrlit as more than once to ask herself; “ What more can 1 de- 
sire?” and yet — and yet there was still that mystic weight at her 
heart, nor would her accustomed numbness consent to be charmed 
away even now. 

And the next day they were all together again, and so on every day 
up till the eve of Monday in Goodwood week. 

Camilla although much alone with her father, had made no allu- 
sion to Acton’s offer of marriage. It was an episode in her life 
which she was anxious to forget, for, whenever her mind happened 
to revert to it, she was surprised at the amount of displeasure it still 
caused her, and even unable to account for it. Yet more did it sur- 
prise her that the memory of her bright brief love-making with 
Horace was, even now, something she could contemplate and linger 
over with a kind of sad joy. Although the hero of that romance 
was no more to her than one in some fiction, she contrived to clothe 
him with an individuality which extended only to the time when 
he had abandoned her. She still worshiped the being she once so 
firmly believed young Brudenell to be. The whole mental scene was 
as a mere fair picture, to be admired as a thing of abstract beauty, 
but the grass was not to be walked upon, the flowers culled, nor the 
luscious fruits tasted. As I have said she was very grateful to 
Acton for having so utterly dropped the lover. His suit seemed to 
jar upon the above dreams, even to desecrate, she could not tell why 
— that which no longer had real existence. She knew he had de- 
clined most plainly to bind himself by any word or promise, but she 
now hoped this was only to lake the more pride in proving he re- 
quired no such aids to help him to do her bidding. 

Camilla had rather dreaded that her father might refer to her re- 
fusal of his friend’s hand, but with endless opportunities he had 
never done so. She certainly was a little puzzled by what seemed 
to her a sort of ultra-paternal tone and manner, which the elderly 
man now habitually adopted toward the younger one, and this was 
so marked that it led her more than once to doubt whether her father 
was aware that she had refused Acton, or even whether he had been 
told of the offer. 

She little suspected that her dear papa was burning to speak, and 
that it was with the utmost difficulty— almost by threats, indeed — 
that Acton succeeded in making Cave Harding hold his tongue till 
such time as the young plotter deemed it wise to bid him speak. 


CHAPTER XXXY1. 

Happy and contented as the gambler seemed and even was at 
Silvermead, the ducal race-week had attractions for him which were 
not to be withstood. He had backed Alcestos for the Cup, to an ex- 
tent far exceeding what even Acton had any idea of; in fact, Raid- 
ing on certain information he had received of a private trial, chose to 
believe that the horse could not lose. He accordingly looked solely 
to the chance of his winning, and thus was never tired of taking the 
odds about his favorite; telling himself that here at last was the long- 


SILVERMEAD. 


172 

waited-for opportunity of making himself comfortable for life, and 
of leaving a nice portion to his darling child after his death. His 
credit, both in the ring and out of it, was, at this juncture, very good. 
Though long under a cloud, he had been lately rather conspicu- 
ously paying oft old scores. A rumor got wind that he was now 
both well off and in good luck; in short both “ legs ” and gentlemen 
told one another that he was good for a “ monkey,” and so, with a 
little circumspection, he managed to make that five hundred pounds 
stretch and stretch until at the present moment he stood to lose every 
shilling of four thousand pounds upon that one coup. If he should 
lose! Well, the question would obtrude itself at times even upon 
him, and he always told himself “ The thing is impossible — absurd! 
The horse had answered the question he was asked too plainly. 
Nineteen pounds and his year to Sir Boland, and an extra furlong 
of ground. Bah! All over but shouting.” 

And so would he comfort himself. 

It was not until the evening before his departure, quite late on the 
Saturday evening— in fact, it must have been nearly ten o’clock; 
but the sultriness of the atmosphere induced Camilla still to linger 
out of doors— that Acton, being alone with her he loved so cruelly, 
suddenly startled her from her supposed security. After a short 
pause in a simple discussion as to the orthodoxy of a recent semi- 
religious poem, he said, quite coldly : 

“ You know, 1 suppose, that your good father is still bent upon 
our marriage?” 

She started; then, the next instant, telling herself that the ques- 
tion meant no renewal of his suit, she said, looking up at his face in 
the bright moonlight, to read what might be there: 

“ Why do you tell me this?” 

“ 1 thought it only kind to prepare you for what he is sure to say 
or to write to you. But he will probably speak, for you know he 
returns on Saturday, not to the farm this time, but here, to stay 
at Silvermead.” 

“ You have told him nothing, then.” 

“ 1 assure you I have.” 

“Oh! But he cannot have understood you; my papa is good and 
loving. Even were 1 in health he would never coerce me, and 
now—” 

“ Believe me, 1 described everything to him in the fullest detail; 
he has told me often that it will break his heart if you do not change 
your mind. ’ ’ 

“ Change my mind! 1 change now! Oh, he cannot know what 
he is talking about,” and she laughed bitterly. 

Then with sudden energy— “ Iwill go to him at once. You shall 
see. A few words and all will be settled. I know my own dear 
father.” 

“ Do not disturb him now. See though the window. He is deep 
in sixpenny piquet with Lady Prendergast. Surely there is no 
hurry.” 

“Oh no, nothing can make any real difference. It is merely a 
question of dispelling, a little sooner or later, this foolish hope of 
papa’s.” 

“Why foolish?” 


SILVERMEAD. 173 

The girl looked at him with an air in which she did not try to con- 
ceal a goodly element of contempt. 

“ Surely you ought to know. Have you so soon forgotten my 
words of the other night? To go over the old ground again Is 
useless. My father has ever been loving and gentle. If you think 
lie is going to command me now, give up the illusion, for, even were 
lie to do so, I should not dream of obeying him.” 

To himself Acton said: 

“ We shall see about that!” 

But aloud he only rejoined very quietly, and without any sign of 
emotion : 

”1 do not know why you should be angry with me. I am urg- 
ing, asking, nothing, only I did not like your using the word ‘ fool- 
ish.’ My only object to-night was to prevent your experiencing any 
unpleasant surprise when your father opens the subject; and to as- 
sure you 1 have faithfully set before him all that you said on the 
evening when I suffered so much at your hands.” 

Of course this was false, but Acton thought it a matter on which 
lie might safely lie; for even if it should transpire that Cave Harding 
was ignorant of what Camilla had said, Acton could still pretend 
the father had misunderstood him. As to the wrong account of 
what occurred having been given, not verbally but in black and 
white, the young man well knew that his friend never kept anything 
in his life but an 1 O U. 

“Enough,” replied Camilla, “it is, perhaps, the subject which 
irritates me rather than yourself. At the same time I am utterly at; 
a loss to see why you could not have so used your great influence 
with my father as to secure me from even the passing annoyance of 
his appealing tome on your behalf. You tell me the failure of his 
hopes in this direction will be a severe blow to him. Surely, then, 
the sooner 3 T ou undeceive him as to their reality the kinder and the 
better for us all.” 

“ This all sounds plausible enough; but you forget one cardinal 
point, which is the ke 3 r lo the whole situation.” 

“ Explain, if you please.” 

“ My hopes. Those hopes which, 1 frankly told you, 3 r our refusal, 
however often times repeated, could never quench. Oh, do not think 
me selfish. I am prompted above all, as 1 explained the other night 
— so uselessly it seems — by the conviction that in giving yourself to 
me alone lies your salvation. You laugh, but that is scarcely an 
argument. ’ ’ 

Throughout Cyril never showed the slightest excitement. His 
fervor and elan had so signally failed on the former occasion. But 
the girl infinitely preferred them to the confidence which the man’s 
whole tone and bearing too plainly betrayed to-night; just as she 
would have preferred the rush of a lion to finding herself seized in 
the cold and clammy coils of some monstrous snake. 

She shuddered visibly, then, 

“ Come, we will go in. 1 will not even lose my temper. How cold 
it has turned all of a sudden; do you not think so?” 

And they went within doors to find Mr. Raiding more jubilant 
than ever. He had won, and winning with him was always win- 
ning, whatever the amount. This grown-up child was radiant as he 


SILVERMEAD. 


174 

pocketed his adversary’s eighteen-pence. Perhaps he regarded that 
little victory as an omen. 

Acton took care to give father and daughter no chance opportunity 
of a tete-a-tete, and in this the lateness of the hour well seconded 
him. Camilla would not condescend so far as to make a formal de- 
mand for one. Her pride told her it was paying Acton, whom she 
was beginning to hate in earnest now — too great honor. 

So she summoned her brightest remaining smile to kiss her father 
“ good-by, ” and — Oh, be not too shocked — she whispered in his ♦ 
ear as she did so, “ good luck, dear papa.” Still, from pride, a just 
one, 1 think — she shook hands with Cyril as much like the night be- 
fore as she was able, and so the quartette broke up. 

Nothing worth recording occurred during the next few days at 
Silvermead. Acton called on the morning after the scene just de- 
scribed, but only to say he was running up to town on business, and 
to ask tbe ladies if they had any commands for London. He should, 
be back, he thought, on Thursday, or Friday. As he drove away 
an immense relief seemed to come to Camilla, who breathed a secret 
prayer that he might not return. 

On Friday, however, at noon, he sent a note over to say he was 
back at the farm, and asking if he might come to dinner. Of course 
the answer was “ yes,” and he arrived about seven, bringing with 
him various small purchases which he had been instructed to make 
for Lady Prendergast. Neither of the ladies could help noticing 
the young man’s unusually high spirits. 

Joy is indeed a more difficult emotion to conceal even than great 
grief, except, that is, in the first few moments of a terrible sorro w. 

It happens that to-night Camilla actually sought an occasion for 
being alone with Acton, but there was nothing in this at all flatter- 
ing to him. As soon as she found one she said: 

“ Can you by chance tell me how it has fared with my father at. 
Goodwood? He promised to write and has not done so.” 

“ No, I have seen or heard nothing of him since Monday night. 
He was off at daybreak next morning. ’ ’ 

The girl bent her head pensively as she said more to herself than 
to Acton: 

“ Oh, how 1 do wish he would take to something else!” 

“ Just what 1 have urged a hundred times,” rejoined he brightly. 

“ With his intelligence, for he is clever in almost everything, I am 
sure he might even now make himself a career, ’ ’ said his daughter. 

“ Let us both try and persuade him.” 

Even in this good work Camilla did not relish the partnership, but 
she only said: 

”1 asked him what race he was most interested in, and which, 
horse he had backed, but he just put me off by declaring it always 
brought him ill luck to talk about his bets. Still, I should so like to 
know he had not lost. You cannot tell me?” 

“Iam sorry to say I cannot. 1 have no doubt he told me some- 
thing, but you know 1 take no interest in the turf. Besides, 1 believe 
racing men constantly change their whole book, as it is called, at the 
last moment from what they see or hear after reaching the course.. 
It is to-morrow r , is it not, he said he would be here?” 

The arrival of a telegram here broke in upon their conversation. 


SILVERMEAD. 


175 


“ A telegram for Miss Harding. ” v 

“ From papa,” she said, as she read it. “ Ah, he tells me noth- 
ing, merely to acquaint grau’ma that he will be here to breakfast.” 

“ Well,” exclaimed Cyril, ‘‘you will not have long to wait. 1 
daresay you will be up early to drive and meet him at the station, 
and so would like to go early to bed. Good-night. I shall walk 
home across the fields and hope for the best.” 

It was from no wish to spare Camilla that the young man had 
concealed from her the secret of his high spirits to-night. They had 
a twofold cause. Firstly, his trusty lawyer had informed him in 
London that certain awkward inquiries emanating, it was supposed, 
from Jack Forbes and his medical friend, Sir Ewing Crofton, had 
at last been successfully diverted upon a false scent. 

Secondly— Oh, blissful news— Alcestos had lost the Goodwood 
Cup. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The very first glance which Camilla caught of her poor father the 
following morning told a terrible tale. 

The man who had set forth but so few days before, blithe, debo- 
nair, positively young, looked now a mere wreck. He had left her 
a sort of Croesus, so thoroughly did he already possess in imagina- 
tion the expected thousands he was to win. He returned a beggar — 
worse by far than a beggar; a gentleman who had staked upon 
honor what he did not possess, and, most- maddening of all, who 
had a fair proud daughter to blush for him. 

Can these things really come under the name of vice? To the 
calm observer they assume rather the charactei of dementia. 

Then comes the question: Is not all crime a sort of madness? Let 
ns not attempt here to pursue so vast a theme. 

The footman who accompanied Camilla in her drive to the station 
thought at once, “ Our young lady’s pa must have caughted a stroke 
or somethink,” and assisted him with a mute solicitude that had. 
-quite a pathetic touch, although it is needless to say Cave Harding 
did his best to seem as if nothing had happened. He told himself 
that to reveal the truth to his sweet child in her delicate state— it 
had, you see, become alarmingly delicate now— now that the wrong 
horse had won — would be simply a piece , of brutality. The honor- 
able course now was to lie to her ; no doubt about it. Only Cave 
had always at hand a whole vocabulary of euphuisms which he used 
even in communing with himself. He would soften it to Camilla he 
thought; soften it considerably. 

So, as they drove away to Silvermead, he put his arm around her 
and asked with a smile, 

‘‘And how is my little pet? Eh? And the old lady at home? 
■Well, 1 hope, eh?” 

“ Oh yes, papa, dearest, but what of yourself? You look un- 
happy! ‘Say, have you lost?” 

The girl’s gentle heart was stirred to unwonted sensibility at the 
sight of her father’s ill-concealed misery. She had not dreamed she 
could ever feel again such anxiety upon any human event as Mr. 
Harding’s state now filled her with. 


176 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ N-not largely, dearest. If you read my unhappiness, believe 
me it is because 1 have not won certain large sums, which upon my 
honor, 1 considered as good as at my banker’s. Oh, 1 was right! My 
•judgment in racing matters is well-nigh infallible: Upon my soul, 
darling, it is.” 

“ Well, then?” 

“ A fatality, my dear, one of those things that happen only to 
me! They had nearly reached the distance and the race was virtually 
over. It was the cup, you know.” 

“ No, papa dear, you remember you wouldn’t tell me— you said it, 
was unluckv.” 

‘‘Ah, did I? Yes; I believe 1 did.” And he heaved a deep sigh. 

‘‘Alcestos — that was the horse that carried all my money — was 
pulling Fordliam out of the saddle — full of running, by Jovej and 
looked like finishing alone; when that wretched Jemmy Kite — 
“ Jemmy Kite is the light weight, my darling — why do they allow 
such children to ride?— the Jockey club ought to pass a law; how- 
ever, little Kite— he’s not fourteen, and such an imp you never saw 
in this world— riding Artillery. Artillery, although a slow brute, is 
no boy’s horse — well, cannons bang against my animal — the devil 
only— 1 beg pardon, my pet— the Lord only knows why, nearly 
knocking him down. I thought we were out of it; but no, in the 
last few strides he came again, and to show how right all my cal- 
culations were, and what pounds we had in hand, Alcestos was only 
beat a head.” 

” Then you didn’t lose much?” 

“ 1 didn’t lose by much, you mean,” said poor Harding in his ex- 
citement; “ but the horse might as well have been beaten out of sight 
as far as the money goes.” 

“ Of course, of course,” sadly smiled Camilla. “ Even I know 
enough racing to see that.” 

They were now at their little journey’s end. Camilla had deter- 
mined to nave a thorough explanation with her father on a certain 
subject, the very first opportunity. She now, however, busied herself 
in waiting upon him at breakfast, coaxing him to get through that 
meal with what comfort he might. At eating he proved this morn- 
ing rather a sorry failure; but drank the carefull} 7 brewed tea with 
evident relish. Lady Prendergast was not yet down. 

It was about eleven o’clock, when Camilla invited her father to 
take his cigarette in a certain spacious summer-house; and there it 
was, seated by his side, after the first few wliifls had gracefully as- 
pired in the stillness, that she begun what she believed a very few 
words would bring to a final and satisfactory issue ; and as far as, 
appearances went, the event seemed to justify her very natural hopes. 

“ Papa,” she began, “ you must not let your bad fortune weigh 
you down. Listen; 1 know your chief cause of sorrow in it all is, 
that you wanted to do certain things for me. Is it not so?” 

A mute kiss was the only reply. 

“Very well,” she pursued, nestling up to his side. “ "When one 
way fails, we must try another, and the new 7 way is often better 
than the old. Now don’t speak till you have heard. l"ou w r anted 
to do something great and magnificent forme. Well, now', it turn& 
out most luckily, that there is something that you can do for me — 


SILYERMEAD. 


m 

now, this very day— far, far more welcome to me than any quantity 
of money you could possibly have won at Goodwood and poured 
into my lap; since this is an act that will give me instant relief and 
peace, while the hundreds or even thousands” — she was going to- 
say, ”1 should never live to enjoy;” but she corrected the phrase 
and said—” 1 really do not want one bit.” 

” I’m sure 1 am only too glad,” tejoined Harding, ” to hear there 
is any service 1 can lender you.” 

What could the poor man say? It was all true, was Camilla’s 
version of the case, of course. He was disappointed at not bringing 
her tidings of victoiy and wealth, but the present crushing, absorb- 
ing, trouble of the broken gamester was that Monday next would 
see him posted at Tattersalls as a defaulter, and although among 
men of honor the designation is not so opprobious as that of 
“ Welsher,” yet, as a matter of fact the distinction is chiefly that 
the former culprit’s offense is of a more respectable size than that of 
the latter — a most dubious claim to superiority. Cave’s one— his 
only — hope, lay in Cyril Acton; of whose real nature he knew noth- 
ing, and to whom he attributed a whole host of imaginary virtues* 
chiefly upon favors received. 

Camilla puisued: 

” You know, my own darling papa, that Cyril Aaton, about a 
fortnight ago, made me a proposal of marriage.” 

The father’s face brightened instantly. lie broke in — 

” 1 do. You hesitated, but now find you love him, and would ask 
my consent to your union. Ah, little girl, have I not guessed? Eh, 
eh?” And he began to fondle and caress her. She rose to her feet. 

“ Oh, papa, how wrong you are!” 

Her tone and manner, more than her words, made him turn in- 
stantly grave. 

” Wrong!” 

“ Yes. Oh, he told me how you wished it, and all that. I said 
at once, and for ever, ‘ No, no, no,’ most emphatically.” 

” But why?” 

“ Oh, 1 gave him good reasons. I was kind, too, thanked him 
owned 1 was flattered, showed him, 1 assure you, every considera- 
tion. But I urged, begged him, as nothing could ever change me, 
to promise never to return to a subject it would pain me very deeply 
to re-open.” 

“Well?” 

“ He absolutely refused to promise, but by returning to his old, 
brotherly manner, had led me to believe 1 was safe from further 
annoyance. 1 respected him for this. We are dull here. I always- 
liked him as a friend and was beginning to take the old comfort in 
his society, when he marred all. Oh, papa, I feel 1 can never look 
on him as anything again — 1 mean not as a gentleman — not even as 
a man. He renewed his suit last Monday evening, in a sudden, con- 
fident way that — that made my flesh creep. Oh, father 1— I hate 
him ; if it is wrong, God forgive me, but 1 do, and he deserves it!” 

And exhausted by her tirade, she sunk down tearless, but quiver- 
ing, upon the bench. 

Cave took her band. 

“ Come, come,” he began, very quietly. “ Am I not here? No- 


SILVERMEAD. 


178 

body, if he were fifty Cyril Actons, shall annoy my little girl. 
There, there; we are alone". He is not by. You shall never see him 
again, if you prefer it. At the same time, be calm; you see there is 
no hurry about anything, and no earthly reason why you should not 
tell papa all about it.” , 

Greatly reassured and soothed by this speech, she squeezed the 
paternal hand, and laid her head against that shoulder upon which 
•she had been brought up. 

“Yes, papa.” 

“ Now tell me, my little one. Are there any special reasons? Do 
you still care for—” 

“ Oh no, no more than if he had never been.” 

“ 1 am glad, so glad. Now then, is your objection against mar- 
riage generally, or a personal antipathy toward our friend Cyril as a 
lover?” 

“ It has something of both. I would much— Oh you do not know 
how much — sooner never marry,” she would not alarm her father 
by adding, “ dying as 1 am,” “ but believe me it is not whim, no 
mere passing spite or anger, that makes me say that not to save my 
life — how shall 1 make you understand— not to save gran’ma’s, even 
yours, would 1 consent to be that man’s wife for one hour. Oh no, 
I could not ddit! Yet I feel 1 could — say, to save you — wed any- 
body else, however wretched it might make me.” 

“ And the cause, the cause of this repulsion?” 

“ I have asked that to myself over and over again. 1 think there 
are more than one, yet I believe the chief is lhat 1 hate him for 
wanting me to be his, knowing what he knows. You cannot con- 
ceive anything more clear, more— almost brutally — plain than 1 
have made it to him, that whatever 1 have felt, or might under any 
circumstances feel for him could only be of the sisterly, the friendly 
sort. 1 would far rather belong to man who hated me, who w'ould 
beat me — Oh, 1 mean it— than to one who loved me as he does.” 

“ My poor pet! But why speak of this thing with such earnest- 
ness, with fear even? Were 1 dead and gone, he could have no 
power to wed you against your will, and with me at your side, how 
much safer, and therefore calmer, you ought to feel.” 

“ My own, own papa! But 1 have fearful dreams by day as well 
as night, worse presentiments. Oh, so terribly real! Tell me, is it 
not unmanly, does it not revolt you, the idea of a man nourishing 
his passion with hope when he knows, beyond all doubt, that the 
object of it loathes him, loathes him especially, for that very same 
unreturned feeling?” 

It does, it does most certainly; yet all this is so strange to me as 
being Cyril’s case, I cannot get over it! It is so at variance with 
what I have thought him all these years. He so honorable, so high 
bred—” 

“ 1 begin to fear,” she broke in, “it is mere outward varnish 
after all. 1 have watched his face sometimes of late, when he little 
thought it, and 1 have seen expressions there that startled me and 
made me shudder. 1 cannot describe them, but at such moments— 
well, he was not the Mr. Cyril Acton the world knows so favorably, 

1 assure you.” 

When a man is about to appeal to the best feelings of another to 


SILVERMEAD. 


179 

save himself from disgrace and ruin, it is hardly the moment to wel- 
come anything that can disparage the said friend. Still Cave Hard- 
ing loved his child very passionately in his own weak way as I have 
often endeavored to show. So without joining in with her in any 
words of even conditional prejudice to Cyril, he repeated his expres- 
sions of love and protection with increased heartiness. 

“ You cannot tell,” at length said Camilla, “ what immense good 
and comfort this long talk has been to me. 1 have marked lately in 
this man, a sort of cold patient confidence most alarm ing to me. 
Now 1 feel sheltered, even against any secret weapon which he may 
have against my peace. ” 

As she was kissing her father once more in her gratitude, a foot- 
man came to announce that Lady Prendergast awaited them at 
luncheon; and that Mr. Acton had come. Tliej' rose and bent their 
steps toward the house. 

Meanwhile the girl said: 

“ Papa, dear, I feel so tired. 1—1 am not used to such early 
hours; besides, I would not meet him. My maid will bring me some, 
soup. 1 shall not show again to-day. By-by.” 

And, unseen by others, she wearily stole up to her own room. 


CHAPTER NXXV1I1. 

The trio at luncheon was not a jovial one, and indeed rivaled in 
somber gravity those stately powdered ones who served them. Lady 
Prendergast innocently ascribed this to the absence of Camilla, little 
dreaming that her presence would have rendered matters worse still. 

She sent her up all kinds of dainties besides the asked-for soup, a 
proceeding in which xicton made great show of aiding and taking 
interest, and as soon as the repast was over, the old lady pleaded the- 
wish to visit her grandchild as a reason for so abruptly leaving her 
two guests to their devices. 

The young man felt pretty sure that father and daughter had 
“had it out,” as he put it, that morning, and in his character of 
one who always made things as smooth and easy as he could, he 
now proposed a ramble through the woods. Knowing Cave’s weak 
nature as he did, he preferred getting him away from such influence 
as Camilla’s very propinquity might still exert over his paternal 
feelings. 

The day being sultry, they bent their course through the dark 
woods, exchanging for awhile the merest nothings, Cave being too 
glad to defer, even for a few minutes, the painful plunge in medias 
res ; Acton, secure in having the game in his hands, and determined 
not to spare his victim the disadvantage of attack. At length poor 
Harding saw this, and, after a brief silence, and heaving a sigh, he 
began, 

“ Well, I’ve had an awful week!” 

“ Ah, so I feared. At the first glance 1 thought you did not look 
as if you had won much.” 

“ Won; don’t talk of it; I am cleared out.” 

“ Dear, dear, that is very sad.” 

This was beautifully said, and the sympathizing youth went so. 


180 


SILVEKMEAD. 


far as to seize and squeeze the other’s hand in a most touching man- 
ner. It encouraged Cave to confidence, and he thought : 

“ This is the prince of good fellows, and Camilla’s ideas are all 
wrong.” 

Then he broke forth into the whole history of Jemmy Kite and 
Artillery. 

“ But why,” asked Cyril, at the end, “ why did you come away 
in such a hurry? A last bold plunge for liberty on the Friday has 
saved many a sportsman.” 

“ Hm, ah!” said Harding, looking very sheepish, “ 1—1 found — 
fact is it got wind in the ring, and — a— among my friends, that I 
had been uncommon hard hit, and — In short — 1 couldn’t get any- 
one to take me.” 

“ To bet with you, you mean?” 

“ That’s it, Cyril, dear boy, we call it being taken on the turf.” 

“ Confound it,” muttered Cyril, which sounded all right, his real 
thought being, “ I am afraid he hasn’t succeeded in losing enough.” 
And he added, “ I suppose when you have squared up "on Monday 
you won’t have much left?” 

“Monday!” exclaimed the wretched man, turning livid at the 
thought. “ I tell you 1 have lost thousands. Here, do you mind 
sittiug down on this fallen tree? I — I am not strong to-day. ” And 
as he struck it with his cane, he added, “ 1 wish I was like it, dead 
and gone!” 

“ Come, come, old friend,” rejoined Acton, putting his hand on 
his shoulder. “You don’t mean that! Think of your daughter. 
"What, man, you have often been hard hit before.” 

“ But never like this, never like this.” and he buried his face in 
his hands as he sat and fairly sobbed. “Oh my honor,” he 
gasped, “ my honor, my child’s honor!” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense, friend,” said Acton, “ 1 cannot bear to see 
you like this. You must make no ceremony, but dip again into my 
purse. You knovr I am rich and frugal, 1 can well afford to help 
you.” 

“ You are the noblest of men,” exclaimed Camilla’s father, seiz- 
ing the other’s hand in a burst of unfeigned gratitude; “ but wliy- 
why should 1 thus abuse your generosity? Why should you be 
thus to me more than a brother, a son; you who are no relation. 
Oli, 1 feel such a wretch to allow it!” 

Then, with sudden energy, he almost shouted through the leafy 
silence, “ no, it shall not be! Let me fly, broken and disgraced. I 
liave brought all on myself, 1 alone will suffer!” 

And forgetful of his weakness and fatigue, he rose and strode 
about in wild agitation. 

“ You cannot,” said Cyril, still seated, “ you cannot suffer alone.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Your disgrace involves that of Camilla.” 

Although Harding had been alluding to her a moment before, 
her name on her suitor’s lips now wrought in him an instant 
change; and even the astute young man who gazed at him could 
not read what was passing in his mind. 

“ Harding,” he went on, “ there are two things which make your 
accepting this sum, whatever its amount, imperative upon you, so 


SILVERMEAD. 181 

let us close the matter at once, and in five minutes we shall all be 
as merry as e-rigs. ’ ’ 

“ Merry! 1 shall never again be merry. Two things,” he echoed, 
painfully striving to arrange his thoughts; “ my child’s future and 
— and the other?” 

“Why, the fact that she will soon be my wife,” said Acton, 
boldly. 

Cave had forgotten it. Grief they say is selfish. He had for the 
time forgotten ali his conversation of that morning with Camilla. It 
rushed back upon him now — her agonized accents— her trust in 
him. To Cave’s candid nature it had never dawned — nor did it 
now — that Cyril Acton would dream of making his pecuniary aid 
conditional upon Camilla’s yielding him her hand. He now resumed 
his seat and said very simpiy : 

‘ ‘ 1 had forgotten. My own troubles are so overwhelming 1 for- 
get every one else. Forgive me. 1 fear I shall wound and pain 
3 'ou. I have very bad news. 1 had a long talk to-day with my little 
girl, and — and — I find she — she prefers not to marry.” 

In thus understanding the case, the poor man was ruled solely by 
his desire to spare the lover’s feelings. He would have spoken in 
quite the same way if the latter had already refused to pay a shill ins:. 

“Oh!” said Acton, quietly. He was thoroughly prepared for 
what was coming. 

The other went on. 

“ Yes — she has asked me to tell you this. Poor child, she is very 
weak and ill, and showed quite an unaccountable degree of agita- 
tion. I could not make it out. So absurd, you know, as if anybody 
would think of coercing her.” 

“ As you say absurd,” replied Cyril in the tone of a man discuss- 
ing the weather. “ I cannot coerce her, and of course you will not.” 

“ It is most unfortunate,” pursued Cave, “ for 1 had set my heart 
on having you for a son-in-law; but I see there is not the faintest 
hope. It is kinder to put you out of suspense. ” 

The young man was silent for some moments; seemingly plunged 
in deepest thought. 

Presently he said : 

“ The best of dealing with a man so intelligent as yourself is that 
one is quite sure to be understood, even when what one feels com- 
pelled to say might shock or disgust anybody incapable of weighing 
difficult and subtle facts. Now, listen calmly until I have done.” 
Here he laid a hand upon his arm. _ “ What is our common object? 
Your daughter’s recovery, her happiness?” 

Cave nodded. 

“Very well, then we must look at the case boldly— like men. 
Harding, she can be saved; but only in one way. As it is, she is 
dying. "Do not heed that, for 1 repeat we can save her. But, left to 
herself, she will sink rapidly to the grave — she owns it — she has told 
me so. Now, were you to force her to marry me — supposing you 
could drag her to the altar— why, that would kill her too. ” 

“ Then what is to be done?” 

“ 1 am coming to it. It is quite certain— I have taken the highest 
opinions — that if, <xs my willing bride, 1 could take her to the South 


182 


SILVERMEAD. 


of Europe, the total change of scene and of ideas — of plans and 
hopes, would make a new being of her. She would live.” 

“ A iHlling bride, yes. There is the impossibility.” 

“ Not at all. It is* now that 1 w r ant you to exert all your acumen. 
You must tell her the full amount ot your losses, describe your 
helpless condition, paint in strong true colors what will be said of 
you at Tattersalls and by (he world at large, if you do not pay.” 

“ My dear Cyril, what good cau this possibly do?” 

“ Can’t you guess? Then 1 must dot myi’s plainly. Tell her then, 
that I have pledged you my word of honor, my solemn word, as I 
now do, that not one farthing will 1 ever give or lend you, until she, 
Camilla, swears, do you hear, swears to be my wife.” 

Harding, almost with a bound — as though struck by a bullet- - 
jumped up. Here was the cloven foot put forth too plainly for even 
his weak indulgent eyes not to see it, however nicely the fiend who 
owned it had covered it over with immaculate wool. 

“ Ask my child to sell herself, and for me! For my crimes,” he 
almost shrieked. “ Remember she is dying. Had any other lips 
framed such a plan 1 would strike the speaker across the face.” And 
as Harding spoke he looked the very personification ot anger. 

‘‘For shame,” cried Acton, pretending also to get in a rage. “ I 
have told you the only plan to save a life most dear to us both. If 
you have, 1 don’t say a better, but another, however forlorn, name 
it. I shall be too happy to adopt it, even at the price of never seeing 
her again; or if you have not, and are so narrow-minded and unjust 
to me as to see in my device nothing but a filthy bargain, well, let 
her die! You will be her murderer, and 1 shall, at least, have the 
consolation of having done my utmost to save her, even to incurring 
your scathing taunts, and— like father, like child — for aught 1 
know, her withering scorn.” 

And with the air of an outraged angel, Acton rose in his turn, and 
paced superbly about, apparently in uncontrollable excitement. 

He was altogether too clever for Harding. This last had a dispo- 
sition most loath to condemn, where a shade of doubt existed. It 
occurred to the unhappy man’s mind that even if Acton’s conduct 
was unworthy, that still the young man might honestly fancy it was 
noble, and all for the best. 

4 ‘ God forgive me if 1 have wronged you,” he said after a while, 
“ but the thing you propose sounds so like an atrocious bargain that 
nothing shall ever make me breathe it to my child,” and he added, 
in an indescribable tone, and one which freed the expression from its 
conventional insignificance, “ 1 had rather die.” 

‘‘ Nothing else can save her,” said Cyril with conviction. 

“ Well, let God take her,” exclaimed the father. Then, “ Do 
you not see how contemptible a figure 1 should make in putting be- 
fore my child a plan so palpably to my own advantage?” 

“ Shall I do it?” said the tempter. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

It was not often that Cyril Acton found himself very wrong in his 
calculations, and the failuieof his sophistries upon Camilla’s un- 
happy father astonished as well as enraged him. There was this 


SILVERMEAD. 


183 

flaw— a very common one— in liis cleverness; he did not understand 
that a man’s morality may leave enormously much to be desired on 
several grave points, and yet that such an individual may have ex- 
cellent principles as to the rest of his conduct, and, what is more 
stick to them. 

At more than one opportunity after the scene in the wood did 
Cyril attempt to shake him ; but the most he could obtain was a repe- 
tition of the statement Harding had then made — that Acton might 
see wrongly and mean well, but that nothing would induce him* 
either to propose or sanction what he held to be, as of course it was, 
in infamous bargain. He consented to remain on a friendly footing 
with Acton, but forbade him ever again to plead his suit with GV 
milla. He wrote up to town, to one of his few remaining friends, 
to ascertain for him on the Monday what he might hope for in the 
way of delay before being “ posted"” as a defaulter, a thing which 
had never happened to him yet in the whole of his checkered career. 
The friend was well chosen, being both zealous and influential; but 
a week was all he could obtain, and that only by pleading that Hard- 
ing was ill — a statement quite justified by fact. 

Day rapidly succeeded day, 'bringing the wretched man nearer to 
that fatal Monday week after Goodwood, when he knew his disgrace 
must be known to the world. After the interview recorded in the 
last chapter Cave paid a visit to his child’s bedside— merely to see 
her, and determined to tell her nothing it could pain her to know. 
Camilla saw plainly, however, that he was concealing much from 
her, but she had no longer any interest in Cyril Acton, save as far 
as concerned her being protected from his detested love, and, as her 
father laid great stress upon the fact that he had iterated to the 
young man his solemn prohibition hever to renew his suit the girl 
was satisfied, and the talk turned upon other subjects. 

She came down as usual the following morning, and since then 
the quartette were more or less always together; leading a life, 
which, if not particularly bright or genial, had still all the outward 
signs of harmony and ease. 

But Acton was not the man to accept defeat e t any price while he 
saw a chance of victory, however remote. It was upon his well- 
founded estimate of the nobility of Camilla’s character that he still 
dared to build his hopes— certainly no mean foundation. As he lay 
awake each night, devoured by his passion, till early morning, he 
matured the plan of his last attack and finally determined it should 
be made on the Thursday, the Thursday of course that is in the 
week after Goodwood. On that evening he would leave a letter 
with Camilla. Meanwhile he took care to repeat more than once to 
her father that the poor bankrupt had nothing to hope for from him, 
at the same time laying skillfully before him every phase of the 
case which might cither shake or depress him. The first he found 
utterly hopeless. The latter was a task only too contemptibly easy. 

Gamblers have been known to do fearful things rather than not 
meet their debts of honor. 1 have heard tales of such as had wives 
or daughters, which would make your hair stand on end. But those 
heroes belonged to the very aristocracy of crime. Poor Cave, 
though a most weak, erring man, was not of the stuff from which 
criminals are formed. 


SILVERMEAD. 


i84 

When Cyril found this out he cursed his own stupidity for not. 
having guessed it before, and then he concentrated all his energies 
upon driving the already miserable man to despair, not the least of 
his weapons being to make brutal remarks, when the two men were 
alone, upon Camilla’s health, her approaching death, invariably 
winding up by telling him, point blank, that he, Cave, was her 
murderer; that grief at his evil courses had brought her to this state, 
and that now, when the final blow, on Monday next, of his public 
shame would probably kid her, he refused the only means ot re- 
pairing his guilt and saving her life. 

At each cruel remorseless attack, the enfeebled man suffered tort- 
ures indescribable, and his shaken frame f airly- tottered to its foun- 
dation; yet as lo yielding either beneath taunts or arguments, he 
never even vouchsafed a thought. .No, it was in a very different di- 
rection that iris ideas now turned, and one which, if though more 
guilty, still was, at least, not so ignoble. 

His state on Thursday morning had grown unbearable. 

Like Acton, though in a far greater degree, he suffered from 
sleeplessness, but without the palliative of hope. At breakfast his 
worn — even livid — appearance, called forth the anxious comments 
of both the ladies, and on being pressed to say if he felt worse than 
usual, he admitted that he did so, and added that he sliould presently 
run over by train to Birmingham, and see a doctor. 

That plan he carried out, but his ostensible errand, as will be seen, 
was not the real or even the principal motive of his journey. Soon 
after he had started it occurred to Acton that an interview with Ca- 
milla, which should have all the appearance of being unpremedita- 
ted, might serve him better than his contemplated epistle to her. At 
any rate he would make the attempt, and he accordingly walked 
leisurely across the fields after his early Arcadian repast, strolling in 
through the open door window of the drawing-room at Silvermead 
just as the dial in front of it marked mid-day. There he found Ca- 
milla alone. She half sat, half lay on a sofa in an attitude that 
spoke rather of utter exhaustion than simple rest. Her cheek was. 
hectic, her eye had the peculiar brilliancy of fever. 

“ Good day, Camilla,” he said, just touching her hand, “ can I 
see your father?” 

He knew very w r ell that Cave had gone and whither, but he want- 
ed to let the girl believe he did not come for her. His present game 
might be termed — the aggression of retrogression. 

“ My dear father has gone over to Birmingham to see a doctor,” 
and the tears came and put out the fire of her eyes. It was not a 
comfort — Acton could never be that to her again, but something less 
terrible just now than being alone— -to question him about her fa- 
ther. ” Did he say anything to you last night about his health?' 
He looked dreadful as he went away.” 

“ N— no, nothing particular.” 

“ Do tell me if he did. O, I would far rather know T the worst. ” 

“ 1 — I do not think he is very ill.” 

“ Then why does he look like that?” 

Acton paused, playing the man pushed into a corner, and most 
loath to speak. 

“ The fact is I— 1 always think it a mistake to be insincere in 


SILYERMEAD. 


185 


such matters, 1 mean insincere out of mistaken kindness. Believe 
me, 1 would tell you all my thoughts, but in this case there are 
special reasons why ]. cannot.” 

“ This, at least, you can say — is there any danger?” 

“ Danger of what?” he asked, irreverently. 

“ Of — of a fatal illness?” 

“ Illness ! No, it is not that — at least — ” and he turned to the 
•window. “ I really wish you would not press me.” 

“ Is any misfortune hanging over him?” 

4 ‘ Well, if 1 know any of his secrets, 1 am bound in honor to re- 
spect them. However, you— everybody — must see he is very unhap- 
py-" 

“ Poor darling papa! About money?” 

“ Well, yes, about money.” 

“ Why in the world,” thought Camilla, “ do you not help him, 
then?” — she had, of course, all a young girl’s contempt for that arti- 
cle — “ you who call yourself his friend.” 

“ It isn’t,” pursued Cyril, “ exactly that he cannot get the sum he 
requires — i need hardly say it is to pay his Goodwood losses next 
Monday — but he will not draw it from the only source at his com- 
mand.” 

“ But why not? Debts of honor must be paid.” 

He flashed round upon her at those words. “Fear of injuring 
•others — a — a mistaken fear, ” and he affected to be going. 

“ Stay,” exclaimed Camila, “ who is he afraid of harming? Can 
it be myself? But I have no fortune, no one else’s money is in his 
power.” 

“ I have already said too much,” and again he moved away. 

“ Tell me, at least, one thing more. 1 see that you think my fa- 
ther is in great mental agony — perhaps on the verge of despair— of 
madness.” 

The young man made no sign to reassure her. 

“ Say, is it in the power of me — his child — to help him?” 

“ That is just the subject on which my lips are sealed. Honor 
and delicacy close l hem alike. Perhaps if you appeal to him — but 
no, he would never tell you; still you might stumble on the truth — 
Oh, he has forbidden me to breathe il to you!” 

And, with the air of one who, under great excitement and temp- 
tation, is yet a very slave to his conscience, Acton strode from the 
room. Nor did he re-appear that day at Silvermead. He had, as 
he intended, Jeft his victim on the rack. It was sweet to hijn to 
ponder that his words had once more acquired weight and thrilling 
interest to her ears. He plucked a honeysuckle as he crossed the 
garden, and held it voluptuously to his nostrils, even as he reveled 
in the idea. 

“ There is just one chance for me,” he said, “ and until that has 
failed I will be merry. To-morrow, if 1 augur rightly, the die of 
my fate will be cast.” 


186 


SILYERMEAD. 


CHAPTER XL. 

Camilla could not rest body or mind. She wandered out, she 
wandered in; joined her grandmamma only to quit her again quite 
suddenly, and each change seemed (o increase her anguish. 

At last her father returned, and at the first glance, a great relief 
entered her heart. He not only looked, but declared himself, an- 
other man. His illness, he said, had passed away. 

“ Yes — a — of course, he had seen the doctor, who had given him 
something that did him good at once.” 

“ Are you to see him again?” asked the girl, with a kiss. 

“ Why, it will not be necessary. Now, darling, let me go and 
dress, or 1 shall be late for dinner.” 

When that repast was served the ladies were delighted to note that 
the reaction in his spirits was fully maintained. What a contrast 
to the same man that day at breakfast! Harding had not been so 
pleasant, so brilliant for years. He was facetious, jocular, witty, 
amusing. lie talked almost too much, which may have accounted 
for his leaving a portion of everything on his plate. On the other 
hand he seemed devoured with thirst, and tossed down far more 
than double his usually modest consumption of wine. He* asked 
Lady Prendergast for champagne, saying the doctor had ordered it, 
and insisted on both her and her daughter partaking of a glass. 

Camilla gradually came to the conclusion that he had visited some 
mone} r lender at the great Warwickshire capital and charmed from 
him the necessary sums. 

All day she had been torturing her brain to unravel Cyril’s dark 
enigmas and also in preparing appeals to her father that should force 
nim to confide in her completely; but scarce had a gleam of hope 
peered through the clouds of her distress. Her determination to in- 
sist upon an interview with him was the one fixed result of all her 
fevered meditations; yet now she asked herself whether it were not 
kinder, as well as wiser, to leave alone what looked so well. To- 
night, at least, there could be no clear advantage in plunging her 
darling father’s mind back into those anxieties and sore embarrass- 
ments which he seemed, for the fleeting hour, so happily to have 
forgotten. As the evening deepened into night, this fresh view 
strengthened within her. 

Even if no happy event had occurred, if he had hit upon no plan, 
surely it would be ample time in the morning for his child to come 
to the rescue, if such should be in her reach. 

“ Monday is not till Monday,” she told herself with childish com- 
placency. “ And then, could appearances be so deluding? Could 
the man now delighting them with airy talk — being an old gambler 
and man of the world — have it all the while in his mind that four 
days’ interval would see him posted as a defaulter? No, it was quite 
too incredible.” 

Little by little the faithful child let her good young heart be com- 
forted by what she observed and meditated on. 

The old lady had of late been giving some instructions to Camilla 


SILVEKMEAD. 


187 


in tlie mysteries of piquet, audio! the latter suddenly remembered 
that in default of costly dolls and baby houses her father had taught 
-her the game when she was a small girl. 

As it is said to rest hunters to take them out to exercise, so such 
pastimes repose the mind from the grim hard facts of life, even 
while they stimulate it to new action. 

Thus the trio at Ilarding’s suggestion played a sixpenny pool at 
piquet to-night, and the specter was, or seemed, banished from each 
heart for an hour. Then the gentleman declared that play had 
made him once more thirsty — the night was so warm — and created 
much astonishment by asking for brandy and water, and he mixed 
a strong second glass to carry upstairs with him. 

But when he had wished Lady Prendergast good-night, and turned 
to do likewise by Camilla, hejield her out before him by the shoul- 
ders and contemplated her face, just as a lover might have done — 
before he kissed it, which he did repeatedly, saying: 

“ Good-niglit, my own, my sweet, my precious.” 

“ Why, papa, this is more like good-by than good-night!” said 
Camilla, wdio was well used to giving and receiving those demon- 
strative caresses, which, motherless, she so loved, and which it is 
never more sw r eet to witness than bet ween father and daughter. 

And she glanced up at his face between two ringing kisses and 
saw a solemn, haggard look there, which engraved itself in her heart, 
and she then knew that the unwonted libations had been in vain, if 
their object were the drowning of care. 

He pressed her again to his heart, and all sought their respective 
chambers. 

Camilla was more weary than usual and soon fell asleep, and 
woke again, after what she guessed was about an hour, with a 
strange impression that some one was rousing her. All, however, 
was perfectly still, and the night lamp showed the room to be empty. 
She had had a troublesome dream —almost a nightmare— about her 
father. The memory of it was yet contused and dim, yet she felt 
grateful to be quit of it. 

For a long time she lay w r ide awake, reviewing the events of the 
day, without it ever crossing her mind that there could be anything, 
either useful and necessary, that she could do at such an hour as the 
present. Very gradually it dawned upon her that she must get up. 
At first she dreamed not for what end, simply that it was unendura- 
ble to lie there. All the exhaustion with which she had lain down 
after her prayers seemed gone, as if by magic, ^ and a peculiar 
and unaccustomed restlessness impelled her to rise, throw on her 
dressing gown, and go to the window. Not that she expected to 
see anything out of the common, nor did she. 

There was no moon, but the night was clear and star-lit. Pres- 
ently, without any cause that she could define, she felt afraid, and 
now with each instant her fear grew more ghastly and intense. 

She was astonished not to hear cries of “ fire ” or for help; yet not 
even the barking of a dog came to break the stillness. 

That something dreadful was the matter she had the deepest con- 
viction— but what? That she was wanted, or rather, that she was 
necessary somewhere— but where? Was her grandmother ill? She 


SILVERMEAD. 


188 

remembered various cases of aged persons being paralyzed or seized 
with a fit, and lying conscious but helpless. 

There came to her mental hearing a voice answering, “ No, it is 
not that.” 

She pressed her little nervous hands to either temple to increase 
the clairvoyance of which she, as it were, mesmerically felt a gleam, 
and then, in a flash, it was there in her mind clear as day — her fa- 
ther! 

Yes, and she knew why. There was no subtle essence permeating 
the space between them; no, it was that last glance of hers at his 
suffering face, which had spoken volumes; of which, at the time, 
she only read the title “ Misery,” but whose awful pages were now 
open to her view. It was that glance which had told her so much 
more than she had been aware of at the time. Her father was not 
ony suffering acutely; he was contemplating immediate action, but 
of what kind? 

Something she must prevent. That was, for a while, all she 
knew. Theu all on a sudden at her heart the thought took shape. 
In an instant she was rushing down the stairs, lamp in hand and 
whiter than her robes ; at the door she sought she paused one mo- 
ment to listen. Distinctly in the silence she could hear its occu- 
pant’s step. He was still up. Then it ceased, and as she was about 
to go forward, there came from that room a sound which froze her 
very blood in her veins — the loud report of a pistol ! Then a stifled 
cry, and immediately another shot like the first, and then the heavy 
fall, as of a man’s body upon the ground. 

Camilla was not the girl to faint at such a moment. No, she never 
even dropped her lamp, but, suddenly nerved to brave eveiy earthly 
danger, she stepped quickly and firmly on to save or mourn her fa- 
ther. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

On entering the room, the scene which met her gaze was simply 
that her expectation had painted ere she threw open the door, which, 
strange to say, was not locked. Besides the light she carried, two 
wax candles burned upon the dressing table, and two on the table 
in the middle of the room. Her father lay between this latter table 
and the bed, already a large pool of blood around his head, and he 
had overturned in his fall the chair on which he had evidently sat 
down to do the deed, and it lay now across his body. 

Camilla rushed straight to the prostrate form and placing her little 
lamp on the floor, raised up the poor man’s head upon her right arm. 
The eyes were nearly closed, the mouth very open, and the tongue 
partly protruding, but tlie jaw did not fall, as she lifted the head 
and bust, and the face, although livid, was still convulsed with vio- 
lent twitches or spasms. Almost as she raised him he groaned aud- 
ibly, as if in intense pain. It was such unlooked-for happiness not 
to find life extinct after two shots, that even this sad evidence of life 
literally inundated Camilla’s heart with joy. There was a footstool 
under the table, which she placed now in lieu of her arm beneath 
the gory head. With marvelous presence of mind she told herself 


SILVERMEAD. 18& 

that to alarm Lady Prendergast might kill the old lady, while her 
assistance could serve no purpose. 

With that coolness which strong natures, of whatever age, always 
find somewhere in their secret depths, even in the most thrilling mo- 
ments of their lives, this young girl, taking once more the light, went 
straight to where the old butler slept near his treasures of ancient 
plate, and roused him with apparent calmness. She bade him throw 
on his clothes, for life or death, proceed to the stables and'dispatcli 
a groom for the nearest surgeon, who was to be told that seconds 
counted. 

“ Then,” she added, “ come to my father’s room, and bring an- 
other man— the first at hand— to help me.” 

Next she flew to her own maid’s room. 

“ Martha,” she said, as she woke her, “ a dreadful thing has hap- 
pened. Now, do not make the slightest noise. You see I have not 
lost my head. My father lies between life and death; come to him 
and make no sound when you see that the room is covered with 
blood. ’ ’ 

Of all that large household, only three persons besides Miss Hard- 
ing, as it afterward transpired, had been in any way affected by the 
double report of the firearms. Two had been awakened without: 
knowing that a noise had broken their sleep, and a kitchen-maid in 
a distant wing, an habitual bad sleeper, though she distinctly heard 
the shots, had quite mistaken from which direction they proceeded,, 
and attributed them to poachers. 

The two women reached Mr. Harding’s room at the same time as 

the men. 

A few minutes later he lay upon his bed with bandages round his 
head, the blood washed from his face, and even that upon the 
floor almost wiped from notice. He was still unconscious. Once, 
as Camilla passed the chimney-pidce, in the course of her assistance, 
she at length noticed a letter placed conspicuously against the clock. 
It was directed to herself and in her father’s well known hand. She 
slipped it unobserved into the pocket of her dressing-gown. So en- 
grossed had everyone been that she thought, and rightly, thaf it had 
not been noticed. She told herself: “ I will read it latei on. Yet 
what need! My own papa would not die without writing me a last 
farewell. Oh, no! For the cause of this dreadful act, 1 know it 
but too well. Rather than face disgrace, he sought the grave. It 
was verj r , very wicked, no doubt — may God in His mercy forgive 
him! but oh, how well I understand it!” 

Thus she reflected during a pause which occurred between taking- 
every possible measure of which their efforts were capable, and the 
coming of the surgeon. 

He was on the spot with exemplary promptitude— a young and 
humble practitioner from three miles off . He had mounted the horse 
of his summoner and not spared him. He proved a sensible fellow 
enough, though in ordinary life somewhat uncouth and very shy. 
He at once expressed himself hopefully of the case, still he had not 
been ten minutes in the house when another messenger was sent off 
to telegraph for the foremost surgeon of Birmingham. 

The self-injured man groaned almost without ceasing. Dr. 
Brown, for such was the young practitioner’s name, declared pos- 


190 


SILVERMEAD. 


tively that the second ball only had taken effect, that it was not 
lodged in the patient, who, he said, was stunned by its contact, 
which had torn away the flesh in its course for about three inches on 
the left side of the head above the ear, and laid the bone quite bare 
for nearly the whole of that space. 

As a matter of fact, both balls were afterward found, one lodged 
in the wainscot, the other in the ceiling. It may be as well to ex- 
plain here that the first shot was accidental and due to great agita- 
tion, and the inexperience of poor Harding in the use of firearms. 

The same fortunate clumsiness explains the imperfect effect of the 
•■second attempt. 

When he who had so rashly sought death had lain for about three 
hours under the somewhat rough and ready remedies applied to him, 
he gradually recovered consciousness, and as far as could be guessed 
from his somewhat vacant gaze, he seemed at once astonished and 
bored — if one may use such a term — at being still in this world. 

In another hour he asked suddenly what was the matter, and 
murmured, “ My head, my head.” 

Just like a doctor, good Mr. Brown was delighted to find he 
could speak, while the first use he made of the discovery was strictly 
to forbid him to do so. Doubtless in this he was eminently right. 

When the great luminary arrived from Birmingham, which he 
did about one o’clock, he condescended to approve of everything 
Mr. Brown had done, though partly spoiling the compliment bj’ 
dwelling unnecessarily upon the extreme simplicity of the case. 

“ The ball had caused an ugly flesh wound and had gone within 
a hair’s breadth of fracturing the skull, bat had not done so. The 
patient had been stunned — badly stunned — that was all, and had 
lost more blood that was good for him. Some, no doubt was bene- 
ficial, but as it was Mr. Harding was indescribably weakened. The 
difficulty now was to restore and maintain strength without adding 
to the fever, which was present, as a matter of course, in all such 
cases. ’ ’ 

Deflecting that gentlemen, as a rule, do not take aim at their own 
heads without being goaded thereto by some more or less crushing 
annoyance, the great surgeon impressed particularly upon Camilla, 
who had a private interview with him, that perfect peace of mind 
was a sine qua non of her father’s recovery. He said this just as if 
“ perfect peace of mind ” were a commodity which Miss Harding 
kept on a shelf in a cupboard, and could take down and administer 
at her pleasure. 

“ Apart from that,” he concluded, “ the case is, I should say, not 
.alarming; on the other hand any worry or distress might, I may say 
would, probably cause complications to supervene of tlie— the gravest 
character.” 

Lady Prendergast was, by Camilla’s thoughtful tact, kept in total 
ignorance of what had occurred until she had breakfasted as com- 
fortably as usual. Her Christian forgiveness of her old enemy for 
his child’s sake had never gone the length of her loving, nor indeed 
of her sincerely liking, Cave Harding, yet needless to say she was 
unaffectedly shocked and most deeply concerned at the frightful 
news. She showed lieiself, both now and throughout his illness, 


SILYERMEAD. 191 

indefatigable both in helping to nurse him and in every way con- 
tributing to the recovery of her guest. 

On this the first day who should turn up at luncheon time but our 
old acquaintance Dr. M’Finn. How the news had traveled so 
quickly to Hasham nobody could say, but the irrepressible Irishman, 
knew all about the catastrophe. The best result of his coming was 
that he got Lady Prendergast imperatively to order Camilla to go to 
bed and stay there. At first she rebelled with all her by gone self- 
will, refusing absolutely to quit her father’s bedside; and it was 
only when M’Finn swore many oaths to her and at her that she re- 
luctantly succumbed. He told her that if she did not obey that she- 
would soon get frightfully ill, that her father would know it, and 
that would kill him outright. Also that whereas at present she 
could be of no possible service, that a few days later, she might 
prove of the greatest use in tending and nursing the sick man, pro- 
vided she now took care of her own health. 

Her health! Poor Camilla! That was a treasure of which she- 
possessed the minutest particle, as she well knew. Still, if she 
could serve her father, she would foster it to the utmost. 

After her maid had put her to bed and left the room, she thought 
she would read her father’s letter. But the dressing-gown was 
hanging on a distant peg, and she felt suddenly so tired that she de 
cided, rather than rise again to fetch it, she would defer its perusal. 

You see he was not to die now, and she firmly believed she could 
almost guess its contents from end to end. Words of love and 
adieu, and an imploring prayer to God and to herself for pardon. 

As her mind was shadowing forth these things she fell into a pro- 
found sleep, which lasted with few intervals through the rest of 
that day and the following night. Each time she woke she rang 
her bell for news, and as this was always of a reassuring kind, she 
dropped off again gratefully to sleep, and, strange as it may appear, 
she thought no more of her father's unread letter for nearly a week. 


CHAPTER XL11. 

The progress made by the sufferer during the first three or four 
days was rapid, and even astonishing. Then, as he recovered his 
faculties more completely, his troubles came back to him in all their 
weight, and he seemed to halt suddenly when half way on the road 
back to life. 

And v r hat of Cyril Acton the while? 

His first apprisal of the affair had been on coming to Silvermead 
in the usual waj r on the Friday afternoon. The old butler had said: 

“You have heard the sad news, sir?” 

“ Xews, no, what?” 

“ Mr. Harding, sir, attempted to commit suicide at about two 
o’clock in the night.” 

“Attempted! But how?” 

“ Blow his brains out, sir, with a pistol.” 

Acton did not believe a word of it. That is, he believed the whole 
thing was a mere piece of acting. In his opinion Cave Harding was 
too weak a man ever to commit suicide. He only, however, said: 


192 


SILYERMEAD. 


“ He is not hurt, is he?” 

“Yes, sir, badly, but doctors say in no ways dangerously/’ 

“ Dear, dear!” and there was real surprise in his tone. “ Where 
is Lady Prendergast?” 

“ I will go and see, sir. Will you walk into the drawing-room?” 

Cyril waited there alone for ten minutes. 

“ It was like him, to buy poison,” he reflected, “ or pistols, but it 
is his having the pluck to use either that gets over me. Lucky he 
isn’t dead though ; that would have bunged up my little game alto- 
gether. I wonder what state Camilla is in. Tried to. shoot himself, 
eh! The devil!” 

But when her ladyship entered the room the young man’s face was 
a study of pained sympathy and concern, and made one look at his 
clothes to see it he were not already in mourning. 

He asked many questions, first about Camilla and then as to every- 
thing else. Had any note or paper been found, placed in sight any- 
where by the deluded man, before he attempted his life. 

Lady Prendergast believed not, she had heard of nothing of the 
kind. Had he made any statement of importance since his return 
to consciousness? She felt sure he had not, he was absolutely for- 
bidden to speak, and as far as possible even to think. 

Then Cyril was allowed to creep up and gaze on the sufferer, who 
was dozing for a few moments. After that he asked if he might 
send for his things and stay, the better to make himself useful in 
any way that might avail. The permission was, of course, accord- 
ed! 

Since then he had spent many hours in each day • in the sufferer’s 
room, in company with Camilla; but as even whispering was not 
allowed, beyond a necessary word or two, she did not suffer much 
from his presence and they only really associated at meals, on the 
rare occasions when Camilla attended them. 

When she saw, after the first few days, that her beloved father 
appeared to grow worse instead of better, she questioned the doctors, 
and they expressed a fear that there was something on the patient’s 
mind. 

She owned that she had too much cause to fear they were right 
and that there was. The learned men again declared that such 
cause of mental suffering must be removed at any cost, or recovery 
was well-nigh hopeless. 

“What should she do, what should she do?” She wrung her 
hands and fairly writhed beneath her agony. 

Money, money, how was it procured in this sordid world, where 
everything seems to depend on its possession! 

Had her gran’ma got any put by? Should she, the proud 
Camilla, kneel for some to Cyril Acton? Anything, anything would 
she do to pay her father’s debts, tell him he was free, and so snatch 
him from both shame and death. 

Pride! What mattered it with such ends in view? 

First, she would tell her gran’ma all. The latter, be it remem- 
bered, knew nought of Mr. Harding’s losses. Would she merci- 
fully, or for pure love of Camilla, offer to do anything, or even fur- 
nish some valuable suggestion? 

Suddenly the unread letter started back into the agitated girl’s 


SILVERMEAD. 


193 

recollection, and she hastened to her room to peruse it. There it 
was in the pocket, where she had slipped it when first found. She 
tore it open and ran her eye rapidly over the opening lines. These 
evidently surprised her, for she went and shut her door, locked it, 
and then settled herself down in a shair to study each with the 
utmost care. 


CHAPTER XL1I1. 

Here is the letter: 

“ 31 Y DEAREST CHILD — Ml OWN DARLING CAMILLA,— Before yOU 
open this they will have told you that 1 am no more, and 1 liope and 
pray that what 1 write may in some degree comfort you, for 1 have 
no thought of myself in writing it. 1 know too well that what 1 
am about to do is a crime, nor can 1 plead that 1 have lost my reason 
in palliation. Crimes would not be crimes if they were irresponsi- 
ble. No, 1 can but say, God forgive me! And if just Heaven 
frown upon the words, I know that their echo from your pure lips 
will take the Divine mercy by storm. 

“ So much for things sacred, but there is a human voice within 
me, compelling me to t$ll you how it is that 1 have, in these later 
times, at least since 1 last returned here and you told me all about 
C. A., how I have, 1 say, placed you first in every way above my 
own peace, credit, and my life. 

“ This is boasting— well, 1 know it, and I cannot help it. I think 
1 hear you say, ‘ If 1 am the first care why deal me the cruellest 
blow of all in taking your own life?’ But that life, my own 
love, has become useless even to you. What do I say? Useless! 
A bane, a disgrace, whose contemplation could only, slowly but in- 
fallibly, break your heart. You are too unselfish to derive any kind 
of satisfaction in seeing me drag out the remnant of my days in 
unceasing shame — agony— remorse ! 

“ Whereas if I die your generosity will crown me with a martyr’s 
halo, and not altogether without some right; for had 1 sacrificed 
you I might have had all the money [wanted; yes, it was as it were, 
thrust into my hand. Not for one moment, dearest, are you to be- 
lieve that I hesitated. No, nothing could be so much as a tempta- 
tion to me that was to bring suffering to my child. 

“ Listen, and believe me when I swear to you, as I strain you in 
spirit for the last time to my breast — you are my first, my only 
thought. 1 am not such a coward but that I would now consent 
to any life of torture if it could soften your lot by so much as one 
pang. 

“ God forbid that at this awful moment, when I am about to ap- 
pear before my eternal judge, already stained by self-murder and 
many other sins, that I should add to my guilt by speaking unjustly 
of a fellow-creature, still less of one who has so often stood mjr 
friend; but by confining myself to fact, I can only deal to Cyril 
Acton his just mead. I need not repeat what you know so well — 
his determined desire to wed you, and all his specious arguments in 
defense of that resolve. Well, finding that I would, once knowing 
your mind, be no party to his suit, he plainly informed me that I 


SILVERMEAD. 


194 

need not look to him for pecuniary aid, but that, if on the other hand 
I would rather force or persuade you to accord him your hand, a 
much larger sum even than I required to save my honor was at my 
instant command. 

“ Comment is useless, and 1 purposely avoid any. 

“ 1 have done. Mark, Oh, do mark this: time alone can and will 
soften this blow to you ! 1 know now you will forgive me. 1 hope 

you will not hear me fire. 1 tried hard to-day to get poison and 
failed. There is nothing left but a pistol which 1 bought when 1 
could not obtain the other I have taken brandy to steady my hand. 
I noted your surprise when 1 asked for it. 

“ Xliank your grandmother for all her forgiving kindness. 1 am 
grieved to bring this sorrow on her, and ask her to pardon me — 
Pardon, pardon. 

“ My own sweet, darling child, who never gave me one instant’s 
pain by any fault, but of whom I have never, never been worthy, 
farewell ! Farewell for ever ! 

“ Your miserable but most loving father 

“ Cave Harding.” 

Camilla, after rushing through the above calmly — externally so, 
at least — turned to the beginning and re-read it very slowty. She 
never shed a tear; not now with all the iacts in her mind aud with 
their frightful ultimate results almost overwhelming her, did she 
feel in the least inclined to cry. 

She drops the paper on her lap, folds her arms, and sits for some 
minutes with glazed stony eyes staring into space. There is horror 
in her look, and no wonder, poor child. 

“What! Her father had sought death for her, should she not 
glory to court martyrdom for him?” she tells herself. 

Fortunately, it is not necessar}' to survive the torture, only to 
brave it ! 

Before taking any step she was determined not only to know her 
own purpose but to gauge her steadfastness. Could she carry out 
what was' in her mind? She thought so. Then she knelt and 
prayed. After that she felt sure. 

“ My father will die if 1 do not. That is enough. In my cruel 
est anguish tlifc thought will come ‘ 1 have saved him,’ and that will 
make me strong to suller. Still, flesh is weak, w r e canuot with all 
our reasonings ever do away with the fact that while we remain part 
of human nature, we must be governed by its law r s. In order to be 
quite sure that her devotion to her father fvas not greater than her 
constancy to perform and suffer, she now deliberately conjured up to 
her mental vision — closing her eyes the better to do so — her situa- 
tion as Cyril Acton’s betrothed, as Cyril Acton’s bride. She pict- 
ured herself addressed by him, with covert though heartless tri- 
umph, as his rightful property, as quivering beneath his loathed 
caresses! 

Had she not said that all, all she could bear but that! And lp, 
this was the cup that she must drain! Ay, drain, for there could 
be no doubt that her executioner, irritated and revengeful on ac- 
count of past rebuffs and proud refusal, would not give her grace of 
one poor bitter drop. He would glory in his triumph, revel in her 


SI EVER MEAD. 


195 


rage, laugh at her every torment ; so she plunged herself into the 
most exquisite torture, striving by the very excess of imagined hor- 
ror to reduce by power of contrast the worst reality that Fate could 
send. 

And now that she found herself on this self-imposed task, she dis- 
covered that she had always dimly foreseen it was her destiny. Else 
why had Cyril’s suit ever filled her with such tumultuous terror? 
Else why not quietly say “ no,” and think no more of the matter? 

It must be remembered that no occurrences known to Camilla 
could possibly shadow forth any danger of her falling into Acton’s 
detested arms. But it is a well-established fact that sheer terror of 
a given doom will now and again induce the belief in certaiQ natures 
that they are in peril of it. 

Half an hour after reading the letter she entered the sick room. 

“ 1 will stay with my father, nurse; you can go to your dinner.” 

And as soon as they were alone. 

“ Papa, dear, 1 have brought you good news.” 

“ Good news!” he said, smiling upon her, but in a most hopeless 
tone. 

“Yes, papa, darling, you know you are to be kept so quiet. The 
doctors will hardly have you told anything; but one or two pieces 
of news 1 must no longer keep from you, and they will do you 
good. Only, mind, it is on condition you don’t ask questions or 
•worry yourself about details. Do you agree? Do you promise?” 

“ Anything to give you pleasure, love!” 

“ Well, then, it gives me the greatest pleasure to inform you that * 
all your affairs are to be settled at once. That dear, good Cyril will 
pay all those horrid betting men in full. ” 

“ Camilla, what does this mean?” said the wounded man, casting 
at his daughter a pained look of searching scrutiny. 

“ Nothing that is not bright and charming, papa, believe me. 
And, papa, I want you to forget all the foolish things I told you 
about not liking him and all that. We girls are such foolish creat- 
ures.” 

“ Not you , not you.” 

“ 1 — l am just as young and giddy as any of them. Bless you, 
we are all alike, one thing to-day, as desperately the reverse to-mor- 
row! So don’t be shocked, or horrified, or anything but delighted, 
as 1 am, 1 am so charmed with Cyril for what he is going to do 
that 1 mean to propose to him after luncheon!” 

“ Propose to him, mj r child?” 

“ Why not? he has often proposed to me, ha, ha, ha!” 

Camilla, it will be seen, like all clever women, could be a consum- 
mate actress wdien she chose. 

Her hilarity was checked by the sternness with which the invalid 
inq u i red abr uptl y : 

“ Camilla, answer me, or you will make me much worse. Is this 
a vile bargain? Are you deceiving me? Has this man dared to 
make your hand a condition — ?” 

She stopped him with a kiss. 

“ My own papa, are you raving? Then listen, while I swear— 
while 1 give you my word of honor that Cyril Acton has not breathed 
one word of marriage to me since you came from Goodwood. 


196 


SILYE&MEAD. ' 

Listen. I know that my refusal pained and disappointed dear 
gran’ma; you know we love her now, you and I, although we used 
to well-nigh hate her, but only for keeping us apart. 1 have been 
thinking of all this, and really Cyril is very good-looking— in fact, 
my mind’s made up, so give me joy, father darling, and turn over 
on your good side and enjoy the best sleep you have had for many a 
day. See, nurse is coming back. Does he not look better, nurse? 
Now then, I’m off to tell my gran’ma all about it, ha, ha, ha!” 

And her laughter rang out as she descended the grand staircase, 
but as she reached its foot it turned to hysterics, and the poor child 
fell unconscious into Cyril Acton’s arms. 

So his first embrace was, after all, without sensible effect upon his 
victim. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

When Camilla recovered consciousness she found herself lying on 
the lower steps of the staircase with Cyril bending over her. As 
soon as she opened her eyes he said : 

“ You feel better now, dear Camilla, do you not?” 

“Better? What is the matter? Oh, yes,” she added, quickly, 
pressing her white little hands to her forehead, “ 1 remember, I 
turned giddy. Did I fall?” 

“No; I was just in time. 1 heard you laughing strangely and 
hurried to the spot.” 

“ Thank you,” she said, vaguely, “ you — you are the very person 
I wanted to see.” 

“Yes,” he replied, evidently surprised. It had long seemed to 
him that Miss Harding never did want him. “ Pray what can 1 do 
for you?” 

She was in such a hurry to go through with what she had resolved 
upon that she came to the point at once. ‘ ‘ I have to speak to you 
without loss of time on very important business.” 

And she laid an imperceptible emphasis on the last word. 

“ Shall we go into the library?” he asked. 

“ Oh dear no. This will do. If any listeners come we shall see 
them.” 

“ Well,. 1 am all attention.” 

“ My father before making that dreadful attempt, wrote me a 
letter, which 1 have only read to-day. 1 learn from it that you had 
promised to pay all his debts of honor on condition that— that I be- 
come your wife.” 

There was no embarrassment in her tone or aspect as she said this. 
The slight hesitation was due solely to disgust; but she concealed 
the feeling, and as Acton merely bowed his head in assent, she con- 
tinued: 

“ My father, I know, will not recover unless his mind is set at 
ease. The doctors say as much. 1 have just told him that you are 
going at once to settle all his bets.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“Yes. 1 will pay the price.” 

“ Those are hard words.” 

“ Why so? Everything in this world has to be paid for, and 


SILVERMEAD. 


107 

dearly too. I want to know if you consider the agreement still 
open? I need say nothing of my sentiments. You know quite well 
1 cannot love, but 1 know this is a point you are indifferent upon.” 

“Oh, how little j r ou know me! 1 would give worlds for your 
affection, but — ” 

‘‘But you are content to do without it. To our agreement, 
please,” she went on, with a strange, low laugh. “ Now, then, are 
you still prepared to pay those sums, thousands no doubt, for my 
father, and take me in exchange? If so, you had better rush up to 
town this very day and do it. At the same time you are free to pub- 
lish our engagement. 1 will many you as soon as the pieliminaries 
can be decently arranged — say in two months from now.” 

It took a good deal to startle Cyril Acton ; nor did the mere fact of 
even Camilla Harding coming into his conditions seem to him be- 
yond the limits of possibility. But what did literally take his breath 
away were the words and the manner of this girl he thought he 
knew so well, as she suddenly seemed to turn into a new being. 

Now and again during their dialogue a footman would cross the 
great hall at a distance, or a maid-servant flit across the landing 
above. Had Camilla chosen the public place for betrothing herself 
to this man because she instinctively felt that he would not, then at 
least, append to the agreement that seal with which we are told 
ordinary lovers are wont to ratify their troth? 

Anyhow, he attempted nothing of the kind. No, the idea that he 
and the young lady of the house should be caught spooning by some 
menial appeared to the newly- accepted suitor as too absurd to be 
risked. He only held out his hand, in which the girl placed her 
own, and said: 

“ It is agreed.” 

To which she echoed: 

“ Agreed.” 

He pulled out his watch. 

“ I’ll say nothing of my happiness.” 

“Pray do not.” 

“ Not yet. 1 will start for town in an hour.” 

“ My father, mind, is to believe — in fact he does so firmly — that 
you determined to settle for him from pure friendship.” 

“ But how, after I so repeatedly told linn?” 

“ No matter how I managed it, sutfice that it is done. Pie must 
remain for ever under the delusion.” 

“ With all my heart.” 

He now put on a very melancholy face as he took a Ganadian tel- 
egram out of his pocket, which he handed to her, saying: 

“I have had sad news to-day. Read it. 

“ Viscountess Hammersley, Montreal, to Hon. Cyril Acton, South 
Audley Street, London. ‘ Your father has had a fit and lies in a 
hopeless condition. 1 am distracted.’ ” 

Though these were people whom Camilla had never seen, her 
gentle heart, never so engrossed in her own sorrows as to be indifferent 
to the sufferings of any human being or even dumb animal, at once 
began to pity and feel for them. 


198 


SILVERMEAD. 


“ Oh,” she said, “ what anxiety your poor mother must be in! 
Wliat will you do?” 

“ Well, what can I do? It can serve no possible end for me to 
set out for Canada. If it ends fatally, I shall get my mother to 
come over here. ’ ’ 

This might be all very sensible, but it struck Camilla that the young 
man took the sad news with wonderful coolness, and she reflected 
that he had then no sign of grief till he produced the telegram. 
However, she now so abhorred Acton that it would have positively 
disgusted her to discover any good trait in him. 

Fortunately at this moment Lady Prendergast appeared upon the 
scene, and was informed of Lord Hammersley’s sudden illness, which 
of itself accounted for his heir having to run up to London, since 
there lawyers and agents are more easily communicated with, and 
it was impossible to say what a man in Cyril’s situation might not 
have to take upon himself. So after the exchange of a few conven- 
tional phrases, he departed then and there, no allusion having been 
made to his new engagement. No sooner had he left the house, 
however, than Camilla imparted to her gran’ma the startling intelli- 
gence, returning for that purpose to that over-joyous, over-careless, 
acted manner which was in reality so unlike her. But the news was 
such a delightful surprise to the old lady that she did not stop to 
observe or analyze very closety, and was as happy over it as Camilla 
intended her to be. Of course, knowing nothing about the money 
side of the question, she could have no suspicion of the truth, and 
was easily brought to think that Cyril Acton, now become a great 
favorite of her own, had, on his sin: pie merits, at length induced 
her grandchild to change her mind, both with regard to marriage in 
general and himself in particular; and the old lady fully believed 
that all those blissful results so eloquently put forth by Cyril, when 
he urged her to support him, would follow their nuptials; so that 
quite a sunset glow of strength and animation was apparent in Lady 
Prendergast tor the next few weeks after hearing the glad tidings. * 

And this brief span of joy was none the less genuine because 
founded— like most of our joys — upon the shadow of a dream, which 
once awakened from, leaves the poor dreamer more downcast and 
sick of life than if he had known no respite from the hard realities 
of an unpitying fate! 

Cyril’s departure, besides the breathing time from the dread op- 
pression of his presence which it afforded, left Camilla at full leisure 
to welcome the marvelous improvement in her lather’s state which 
her heroic sacrifice had inaugurated. 

In a very few days after his wild dalliance with the grave — his 
grim flirtation with death — Cave Harding was sitting up in his room, 
out of all danger, and once more — such was the wondrous elasticity 
of his nature — positively enjoying life. This gave new courage to 
poor Camilla, who struggled hard to appear, at least in her father's 
eyes, the happy being he supposed her to be. Nevertheless, when 
you are for hours and hours each day with one who knows you in- 
timately, it would demand a more than human power to prevent the 
craftiest mask, if not from falling, at least from getting at times 
somewhat displaced. 

Chinks, then, in the shining armor of her gayety did the con- 


SILVERMEAI). 


199 

valescent father now and again surprise in the little fairy who flitted 
around his arm-chair, and lie forthwith applied himself to divine the 
cause of these moments of irrepressible sadness; for with the sharp- 
ness which he really possessed, he detected, equally with these 
phases of melancholy in his beloved child, her desperate efforts to 
conceal them. 

One day, as she stood at the open window, gazing blankly at the 
distant horizon — he had been silent some little time and she thought 
he dozed — the invalid called to her: 

“ Camilla!” 

She was at his side in a moment. 

“ Yes, dearest?” 

4 ‘ Lilia, you are always doing something to make me happy.” 

“My own papa!” 

“ Yes, and 1 do nothing for jmu.” 

“ Yes, you are getting well.” 

“ Angel — is that all you want?” 

“Quite all!” 

“ I think 1 can do more.” 

“ Yes!” she exclaimed, not imagining what he could mean. “ It 
will seem very tiny, whatever it is, in comparison to that.” 

“ Sweet child, you try always to look bright and contented. You 
cannot deceive the eyes of love, though.” 

She changed color. Was her secret discovered? If her iather 
only suspected the truth it might still kill him! She prepared most 
nobly to lie — lie with her lips, as she was already doing by her whole 
demeanor. 

“ Oh, papa, what absurdity do you suspect?” 

“ None, but a most natural and holy fear — a fear that is growing 
at 3 T 0 ur heart. ’ ’ 

“ Of — of what?” 

“ What can you dread but one thing, loving me as you do? Oh 
Lilia, there is nothing like a sick bed for making us enter into our- 
selves, and — repent. ’ ’ 

She breathed again. 

“ My child, a gambler’s promises are reckoned, and deservedly 
so, as ‘ dicer’s oaths. ’ But 1 want to make you a little present of 
that which I have ever kept pure and untarnished amid — amid all : 
my w'ord of honor! Poor Lady Prendergast has often and often 
asked me for it, even offering in exchange sums of dazzling magni- 
tude. However tempted to this venal virtue she would lure me to, 
1 ever refused, loving my darling vice better than all. Well, there 
is something now 1 love better still — your little self.” 

The tears sprung to her eyes as she stooped and kissed him. 

“ My own papa!” 

“ 1 know, i see, that you are haunted by fears that once recovered 
and returned to my old waj'S of life, my haunts and associates, new 
difficulties, fresh losses, will sooner or later befall me, making all you 
have done, this dreadful lesson I have had— as naught and un- 
available. Oh, my little girl, come take my hand and my word and 

happy in the thought that you have for ever reclaimed me.” 

Their right hands met. A bright smile mounted to his countenance. 

“ I give you my solemn word of honor— a word which no one yet 


SILVERMEAD. 


200 

even so much as accuses me of breaking— that I will never again 
play or bet, except m diver. 1 am laughing, dear, as I insert that 
clause. You know it would not do to forego our little pools at 
piquet. 

“ Oh, you have indeed made me the happiest and proudest girl in 
England. ’ ’ 

And could she have forgotten Cyril Acton and her engagement to 
him for one brief instant her words had been indeed true. Her res- 
pite from Acton’s society was not of long duration. Twice he wrote 
during his shorts stay in London, and within the week he was back 
again— a guest beneath the very jroof of Silvermead. 

There had been no love-letters. His first epistle was to Lady Pren- 
dergast, and simply announced that Lord Hammersley was no more. 
The second was indeed to Camilla, but as it onty preceded him by a 
few hours, it consisted of only a few hasty lines. 

It boots not to dwell in any detail upon the thrice sad and bitter 
phase of Camilla’s blighted life which now ensued. 

To pity may be a sweet and holy exercise of the human feelings, 
and surely if it dwell in the breast of any who have perused this 
history, the chord lias been struck; but there is a point beyond wliich 
the contemplation of sucii shuddering anguish as was now our hero- 
ine’s would become too like complacent cruelty. 

Great deeds have a way of realizing themselves which great hopes 
completely lack, at least here below. And so it proved witli the 
hapless Camilla, who found in the new Viscount Hammersley Cyril 
Acton’s only conceivable rival in detestability. 

On his return — it was the moment before dinner — she had ad- 
vanced as he entered the drawing-room, and boldly, in the presence 
of the two elders, offered him her cheek to kiss. After that she told 
him plainly that as Miss Harding she would not be caressed, and on 
the rare occasions on which he essayed to break through this com- 
pact, she immediately took refuge in flight. We know that Cyril 
detested rows, and that he was one who could wait. 

“ Well well,” he said to her one day, with a coarseness which did 
not in the least surprise Camilla, so well had she learnt to read him 
beneath the thin varnish of his refinement, “ snacks only spoil one’s 
dinner; I’ll let the debt accumulate at compound interest.” 

But whenever they were alone his eyes and his words levied upon 
her what he called an ad interim tax, which he gloated over in exact 
proportion to the frenzy of torture in which, with all her pride, she 
could not conceal from her betrothed that he made her writhe. 

But he felt himself secure. He lyiew, unless he committed forgery 
or some such breach of law, he was utterly safe with Camilla, be- 
cause he had paid those thousands for her father. 

In the modern slave market he had bought his slave. 

One bright tender star of hope yet shone indeed amid the night of 
her sky— sweet Death! It would be a close run, she knew, between 
that angel and the demon; but she thought the first would win. 

Oh, how voluptuously she dwelt in the cold contact of his shelter- 
ing arms compared to— No, she could not think of the alternative 
and live. 


SILVERJUEAD. 


201 


CHAPTER XLY. 

Op his rival, the grave— our new Lord Hammersley dreamed no 
longer. That lever, which smoldered without ceasing in Camilla’s 
veins, had. ol late times, chased away even the semblance of her old 
apathy and weakness. 

The efforts of heroic will which she had made, the very tormenls 
which she now suffered day and night— fpr sleep was a friend of 
whom she saw less and less — galvanized her, as it were, to a fictitious 
vigor, and a sham aspect of health. Although thinner than she had 
ever been, her obstinate beauty refused to quit her. Ever ready to 
vary its character, yet would it neither diminish nor depart. She saw 
this, as w T ho could not, and — felt it to be among the ironies of her 
destiny that, because her promised lord had turned her fairness into 
one of his implements of cruelty, for that very reason no doubt was 
this short-lived boon, which so many women esteem the first of 
earthly gifts, left to her. She thought sometimes of those holy vir- 
gins mentioned in the lives of the saints, who, when about to see 
their convent invaded by a brutal soldiery, rendered their fair faces 
hideous by tearing them with their own nails. 

But the weeks flew by, and her long looked-for deliverer seemed 
not to approach, nor svas there any conceivable pretext for deferring 
the marriage. Mr. Harding appeared thoroughly recovered, and his 
old talent for happiness had bloomed forth again in a perfect rage 
for gardening and flowers. We have seen that when this peculiar 
man was happy himself, he had a little way of concluding every one 
else must be so too. He had kept no record of the bad impression 
which his son-in-law elect had made upon him by his base proposals 
at the time he, Cave, was in such sore distress, and only occasionally 
regretted that Cyril had not more taste for horticulture and scarce 
ferns; without which, he declared no existence could be complete, 
lie forgot that, for nearly fifty years of his life, he had himself 
thought no more of such things than of Chinese grammar: but 
neophytes are ever thus. 

Foi two brief, blessed intervals of nearly a week the new viscount 
did graciously take himself off, under that ever ready pretext of men 
— so vague, so unanswerable — business. To be sure the second of 
these received some special coloring from the fact thdt during it the 
wedding presents were chiefly ordered or selected. 

They came down in due course and made a right goodly show. 
The fact was that the bridegroom had not to do much violence on 
this occasion to his constitutional parsimony. There were the family 
jewels, only some of which required resetting, and moreover, the 
dowager, whose heart had never cared for aught that pertained to dis- 
play, gave up most of her personal gems. Lady Prendergast, whose 
husband had loved to deck her w ith diamonds and rubies to an ex- 
tent quite disproportionate to his moderate fortune, w'ell-nigh 
stripped her dressing cases and ecrins in her craving to show her be- 
loved orandcliild that her affection knew no bounds. With the ad- 
vent of autumn, too, the county families whom we formerly met at 


SILVERMEAD. 


202 

Silvermead or its neighborhood, returned for the most part to their 
houses. They drove over to call and wish Camilla joy, often bring- 
ing along with them some well-selected testimony of their taste and 
goodwill. The girl received all with the same stereotyped smile, the 
best now at her command, and it was only as her friends drove away 
that they gave expression to their thoughts as to her altered appear- 
ance and manner. 

‘ ‘ Ah, ” said Mrs. De Basle to the M.P. , when well outside the 
gates, “ that girl is not happy, she has fallen away to nothing.’ ’ 

“ She is either miserable, or ill,” went on the kindly woman. 

“ Probably both,” suggested the practical statesman, “sorrow and 
disease are seldom far apart. ’ ’ 

“ I believe,” concluded the lady, sagaciously, “ she never got 
over that affair of young Brudenell. He jilted her, they say.” 

“ And has married Lady Susan Graye, eh?” 

“Hot yet, love, l'ou always remember news so vaguely. It is 
to be on the' twelfth. ” 

And Lady Fouroaks, driving herself along the well-kept English 
high-road, at twelve miles an hour, addressed her eldest girl, seated 
beside her: 

“ It is always the way! Men delight to marry girls who are care- 
fully hid away out ol sight!” 

“ Yes, she is a lucky girl!” sighed the daughter, who had cer- 
tainly not been hidden under a basket. “ A viscount, young, rich, 
and he looks so clever — 1 suppose it would be no use hiding us now, 
mamma?” 

“ Not a particle.” 

“ And do you remember how wild Horace Brudenell was about 
her? But 1 don’t think she cared for him like this one.” 

“ Well, 1 thought she rather did, but you never can tell what girls 
really feel.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I am sure if I ever care the tiniest atom for a man, 
you see it at once.” 

“ Well, love, that is no wonder. You show it so plainly.” 

“ For shame, mamma, I’m sure I don’t; but, let me see, what day 
is the marriage?” 

“ The twelfth, is it not? But why?” 

“ Oh, such a strange coincidence,” said the girl, “ that is the day 
her old lover marries Lady Susan Graye in London!” 

“ Ah — so it is — how very funny. Ha, ha, ha!” 

“Iam glad we are to be bridemaids. Wonder if Hammersley 
will give us decent presents.” 

“ It is generally an obligation men get out of as cheaply as they 
can. 1 shall never forget, when I was a girl, receiving on a like oc- 
casion a very attenuated gold circlet for my finger, from a bride- 
groom who was as stingy as he was rich. I called him to his face — 
Ha, ha, ha!” 

“Oh, what, mamma? Ha, ha, ha!” 

“ Why, the prince of the invisible ring!” laughed her ladyship, 
deftly plucking a gadfly from the ear of her off stepper. 

And so everybody throughout the countiy-side had their little say 
about the matter. Some tried to say wise things, and others clever 
things, and Miss Laffincli varied the salad with vinegar, saying nasty 


SILVERMEAD. 


203 

spiteful things, although she was invited like the rest. And she went 
some distance to call on an old gentleman, whom she knew better 
than he knew her, one of those collectors of beautiful things who, 
not being rich, always keep on buying and changing their acqui- 
sitions like a dealer, and the Laffinch “ bought ” from him a rare old 
Dresden group of the carrying off of Proserpine, for which she never 
paid or intended to pay, and she brought it in great state and pre- 
sented it to Camilla as her wedding gift, saying that it had belonged 
to her mother, having been presented to that mythical personage by 
the ill-fated Duke of Orleans, when a boy. It was such a $ery 
peculiar group that the innocent Camilla, on its being unveiled for 
her benefit by the old harridan, scarcely knew which way to look, 
much less wliat to say, but her lather, who was present, and an ac- 
knowledged judge of art, declared that it was superb, matchless, so 
the little fiancee supposed it was all right, if she could not under- 
stand it — like Adam and Eve, or that sort of thing — and stammered 
forth her thanks as best she could. 

“Now you are shocked, you little prude, I know you are,” 
shrieked Latfinch, delighted. “ Of course, my dear, if it comes to 
that, none of the goddesses were exactly people one would visit, if 
they came back to us; only one can’t furnish, or sculpt, or have 
picture galleries or anything nice without them; could we* now, Mr. 
Harding?” 

Then Sir Howard Brudenell presented an exquisite “ Common 
Prayer,” bound in blue Russian, with great clasps and fittings of 
solid gold, such a thing as was safe to command the attention of 
heaven and the saints whenever used. It cost a hundred guineas 
without the case. 

And the day drew nearer and nearer! Even the now sanguine 
Lady Prenderg’ast did not consider Camilla sufiiciently “ recovered,” 
to make a journey to London to get the trousseau. Under her dear 
husband’s tender cafe, with nothing to do but to be Happy, she could 
of course travel by easy stages as far as desirable, but shopping from 
a London hotel, and hacking about in hired carriages from dress- 
maker to ling ere, and from plumassier to milliner, was not for a 
moment to be ventured upon. 

But no expense was spared by the generous old lady in making 
up for this unavoidable drawback. The first talent was summoned 
down to Silvermead, regardless of cost, and the place simply in- 
vaded by every denomination of those artists whose province it is t.o 
conceal the human form. 

There were tailors, male and female, besides specialists of every 
clothing mystery. 

In vain did the ever gentle Camilla deprecate so much trouble and 
outlay; no remonstrances availed, so she went, like an automaton, 
through the endless business of being measured, and of trying on. 

She forced herself to the utmost to seem pleased, and was profuse 
in her expressions of gratitude, but none of these ceremonies, often, 
dear to girls, amused her now, and yet she had once been so fond of 
everything of beauty. It all seemed to her as if she were acting for 
some one else. 

She strove to console herself with the thought, that the more she 
fagged herself, the sooner she would be worn out, and that all this 


204 


SILVERMEAJ). 


unwonted fatigue might help to “finish her,” as she put it, and 
bring her within the Deliverer’s reach by the fatal day. 

When it wanted but a fortnight to that twelfth of October, there 
were an unusual number one day at luncheon — some eight or more 
— several friends, the lawyers, etc., having dropped in. Lord Ham- 
mersley was carving the haunch of mutton, when a telegram was 
handed to him. It may not be well-bred, but it is the universal 
trick for everybody to gaze instinctively upon the face of a person 
opening a telegram. Camilla, at any rate, watched her betrothed 
intently. Any event might, she imagined, render him, even now, 
either unwilling or unable to marry her. He almost instantly rose 
from the table, under the pretext of having to write an answer, and 
left the room. But Camilla had noted an expression of sudden and 
blank terror rush to his face, even as the blood left it. From that hour 
lie was a changed man. He seemed, even for long intervals, un- 
aware of her presence, which delighted her in a way. He was always 
writing, and received many letters. His appetite broke down, and 
he betook himself to solitary rambles. When it only wanted a 
week to the wedding, he made a desperate attempt to get the day 
altered to an earlier one. For a long time he pressed and argued 
almost violently upon the feasibility of this, but in vain. All were 
against him — Camilla, of course, most of any, declaring that he 
would have to be married alone, for she would not £0 to church one 
hour before the time fixed. It was remarkable that with all his 
vehemence Cyril yet failed to adduce one single valid or even 
plausible reason for this curious change. He kept repeating that he 
knew what he was about, that he had the strongest motives, and so 
forth. Finding that his most desperate efforts were in vain, how- 
ever, he- made the best of his defeat, and very sensibly —he w r as al- 
ways sensible, in a manner of his own — he neither sulked now gave 
evidence of any grudge or ill humor against those who had so firmly 
denied his apparently preposterous request. 

Still his mysterious letters continued to pour in. Though the 
writing was from various hands, he always alluded to them as from 
his lawyer. To complicate matters, more than one unknown man 
of strange appearance arrived at Silvermead, remained closeted an 
hour with the new peer, departed in the fly that brought him, and 
w r as seen no more. 

And still the time stole nearer! 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

Witen it reached Camilla’s ears, as it could not fail to do, that 
Horace Brudenell was to be married on the same day as herself — it 
was Miss Laffincli indeed who actually delivered the news to her — 
she was far more upset by it than she could have imagined that any 
information concerning the only man she had ever loved, would 
have power to disturb her. From that moment her thoughts were 
perpetually with him. It is very difficult to convey any just idea 
of the manner in which they were so. It was hardly thinking— a 
brooding, a semi-meditation, a day dream in which she sought 
mental shelter from the impending horror of her marriage; and to a 
great extent, it served her end. 


SILVEKMEAD. 


205 

Bitterness, rage, envy, revenge she had none. She rather despised 
herself now for this, but she constantly hoped and prayed that 
Horace might be happy! Horace! That once dear name even now 
seemed to linger on her lips and kiss them ere it went the way of all 
words. 

At length the fatal morning arrived. It was a strange awaking 
for a wedding day. Many and many a bride beholds the dawn of 
such a one with sorrow, forced more or less to mate with a man she 
cannot lover but the most miserable of these has always a remedy in 
her own hands; she can still refuse, spite of furious mothers or tyrant 
fathers, to conclude the sacrifice. She may even wait till the in- 
dissoluble knot is being tied by the clergyman, and, braving all con- 
sequences, answer “ no ” instead of “ yes.” 

But wretched Camilla was bound by a chain she had placed around 
her with her own free hands — her honor, and which she had no more 
thought of breaking Ilian she had of searching for her father’s pistol 
and shooting Lord Hammersley. The possible was as hedged round 
b} T the honorable in Camilla’s mind as the earth by its atmosphere. 

She had vaguely hoped that her wasting illness, which she well 
knew to be mortal, might have made such strides by this day that 
rising from her bed should have become a physical impossibility; 
but to her grief she woke, after many hours of refreshing sleep, feel - 
ing unusually well, better far than she had done for long, long 
weeks. 

She lay there, still enjoying her last rest at Silvermead, until her 
maid came in, at the latest allowable moment, to call her and say 
that she must rise or she would never be in time for the ceremony. 
She was soon followed by Lady Prendergast all anxiety to know 
how she felt. From that moment Camilla knew little or nothing of 
what happened to her till she knelt at church’ by Lord Hammersley ’s 
side. She felt dazed, and delivered herself up to her, attendants and 
friends in a passive and really almost unconscious state, obeying 
implicitly every direction, every request. She felt one thing, she 
felt glad she could not think, and only prayed this state might en- 
dure for however many days she had to live her cruel life. 

Of course the bells kept ringing merry peals. For a long time no 
one fancied she heard them, and when once she listened and then 
asked, “ Is anyone being buried to-day?” it was quite honestly, and 
when she had uttered the words it was only the astonishment they 
provoked that made her aware of their absurdity. 

And then came the wedding festivities. The assembling of rela- 
tives and acquaintances at the great old house ; the demonstrations 
of village maidens and school children; the boughs and flowers, 
rustic music, aristocratic equipages, and white favors, they were all 
there, the described-to-death pageantry we know so well. 

Passons. 

Camilla, ever lovely, now walked up the aisle of the little church 
with a firm step and no show of emotion, while her father, who still 
looks young enough to be mistaken for the bridegroom, and on 
whose arm she leans, trembles perceptibly. 

Unlike most brides she does not keep her eyes upon the flowery 
way at her feet, but looks straight and frankly before her. Her eyes 


20G 


SILVERMEAD. 


are like coals, but onty in their burning, which enhances their blue 
beauty. A hectic rose burns on either cheek. 

Another moment and she kneels by the bridegroom’s side, and the 
ceremony has actually begun. Lord Hammersley it is who is pale 
and nervous, and he keeps looking about — as much as he dares— 
with uneasy glances, and a seriousness upon his clear cut counte- 
nance ill suited to the festive occasion. 

The officiating clergyman, a fine and venerable looking man, arch- 
deacon of the diocese, had proceeded with the ceremony in the par- 
ticularly dignified and impressive manner which, in the pulpit, had 
made him a name as a preacher. He was one of those speakers who 
lend value to whatever they say. 

When he reached that portion of the marriage service, “ Cyril, wilt 
thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to love—” tne traditional 
pin might have been heard to drop, so awed, so moved, so hushed 
was the assembled crowd. In lieu of any such trivial sound, how- 
ever, there suddenly fell upon every ear — strained to attention as 
were all at that moment— strange, faint, distant noises that though 
but just audible for the first few instants, had in them, even then, 
a something which was ominous. Ten seconds more and the} 7 had 
form and meaning, and every one turned and consulted his neigh- 
bor’s eyes. It was a galloping of horses, a rumbling of wheels, 
shouts of alarm or consternation. 

The clergyman stopped dead in the midst of the service, then re- 
covering himself endeavored to proceed. 

But like a hurricane the tumult swept on — nearer, ever nearer, as 
if the church were its aim and it would strike it to the ground. 
From the archdeacon to the smallest cottage urchin eveiy face was 
bleached but one, and that was the bride’s. What cared she? She 
only dreaded what the rest called safety. Was a whirlwind, physical 
or moral, on its way? — well, il was a friend. Should an earthquake 
bring the walls about their heads, it could not deal death to her 
without yielding that freedom for which she yearned. 

And now an open caniage and four — and this one had no bridal 
favors, you may be sure— has dashed up to the church door, stop- 
ping so suddenly that the streaming, foam-flecked and panting 
horses are thrown violently upon their haunches. Two of its four 
occupants spring helter-skelter to the ground; the others, men in 
years, follow as they can. For the past five minutes all have been 
shouting, as they continue to do, 

“ Stop the marriage! In the queen’s name! In the queen’s name, 
no marriage— stop, stop!” 

And the various groups along the road— for the whole population 
were out to-day — had caught up, they knew not how, the enthusiasm 
of the new-comers, and lustily joined in the cry, many of them no 
doubt recognizing the evident leader of the quartette, who stood 
erect, clutching the box seat and urging on the postilions in a frenzy 
of excitement. This man, the first to enter the church, did not walk 
but tore up to the very altar steps, the spell-bound crowd opening 
before him as waves cut by some racing prow. 

“ Hold in the queen’s name, hold!” j. ... 

Camilla turned her head and gazed on Horace Brudenell. 

“ Your pardon, sir; you see there was no time to lose. A mo- 


SILVERMEAD. 207 

ment more and you will thank me, as must every honest man. for 
this seemingly brutal interruption.” 

With wonderful self-possession the bridegroom, who had started 
to his feet on the carriage stopping, addressed him. Perhaps he was 
less astounded at this bewildering occurrence than was generally 
supposed. 

“ And by what right do you invoke our sovereign's name to cover 
such an outrage, Mr. Brudenell?” 

“ By the right that every subject has to stop felony! No less. 
You are an impostor and a rogue.” 

“How dare you!” exclaimed the bridegroom, advancing upon 
the other as to smite him; but Horace never blanched. 

“ Lord Hammersley!” began the archdeacon, who leant upon the 
arm of one of the assistant ministers and had not yet spoken. 

“ Whom do you address, sir?” said Horace. “ This man is not 
Lord Hammersley, and he knows it!" 

It is impossible to convey the sensation these last words caused. 
Some awful charge against him every one naturally awaited — trea- 
son, murder, something most heinous, but not that. 

“ If I’m not,” almost yelled the accused man, desperately trying 
to brazen it out, “ 1 should very much like to know who is?” 

“Behold him!” 

And as Horace said this, he pulled forward his old friend Jack 
Forbes, of whom no one till now had taken any notice. He stood 
there, blushing like a girl, and wishing himself a thousand miles 
away almost as fervently as his cousin did. 

“ But, sir,” faltered the archdeacon, “ what proof?” 

“ Oh, I have plenty. First, 1 am well-known to many here present: 
my name is Horace Brudenell. There stands my uncle, Sir 
Howard. But 1 bring down my -chief witness. Sir Ewing Crof- 
ton — ” here he took the great doctor for a moment by the hand — 
“ and 1 come armed with the law in the person of this gentleman.” 
Here he indicated the elderly man in black, who had come with 
them. 

Then turning to the clergyman again he asked, in a tone wnich, 
do what he would to render it respectful, had still in it a strong spice 
of menace, 

“ llo you consent, sir, to suspend the ceremony?” 

There was one moment of awful silence, then the old servant of 
God replied: 

“ I have no other course.” 

The false Lord Hammersley once more spoke — bold to the last. 

“ Sir,” to the clergyman, “ 1 am here, it appears, friendless and 
defenseless— a position which, as Englishmen, you will respect. I go 
straight to London, where alone 1 can obtain that justification which 
1 pledge you my honor I can command. This scene you have wit- 
nessed is either an unheard-of outrage or a gross mistake. If the 
former, those who have committed it shall atone dearly for their 
crime; if the latter, they shall curse their credulity anil those who 
have gulled them. Miss Harding, ladies and gentlemen — till we 
meet again.” 

Andlie strode, with well -acted dignity, straight out of the church. 


208 


SILVERMEAD. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

Had he who came to interrupt these unholy nuptials been a com- 
mon felon, in the Portland garb of infamy, Camilla Harding would 
have felt inclined to clasp him to her heart. 

According to the evidence before her — as lias been so repeated^ 
shown in this history— Horace Brudenell’s conduct toward her was 
wholly indefensible. There is, however, that royal prerogative 
about the truth that, as a rule, it is sure to assert itself sooner or 
later, and shine through falsehood, as the glorious sun athwart huge 
banks and packs of cloud. 

No sooner did the bride gaze upon that once-loved face than she 
read his innocence by the light of her heart; and the discomfited 
bridegroom, followed by his best man, had barely reached the porch, 
when Camilla went straight up to her old lover, with her hand out, 
and said low but earnestly : 

“ You will come back with us? I must see you and— thank 
you.” 

“ I will do all you wish, Miss Harding. I feel you are entitled to 
much fuller explanation.” 

And she, upon this assent, turned to Lady Prendergast, and hur- 
ried her away. It was a sight to see the manner in which that gala 
crowd dispersed. Every one seemed in a most desperate hurry, as 
though, now that the object of their dressing and assembling had 
been spirited away — now that there was to be no marriage, they each 
one felt as if transported to some everyday life, from the whirl and 
glare of a fancy ball, and suddenly became ashamed of the dress 
they wore. 

How Silvermead was reached nobody could afterward have told. 
The party packed themselves away promiscuously in each successive 
vehicle that drove up, the nearest getting in, and all too anxious 
about fleeing to care how they went. The crowd was a silent one, 
exchanging little more than whispers with each other, and gazing in 
search of further information upon the faces of “the quality,”, as 
they drove by. None of the county families who had been present 
at the interrupted ceremony proceeded to Silvermead at all. Even 
Sir Howard drove straight back to Massing, while Sir Ewing Crof- 
ton and the lawyers made straight for the railway station; for now 
that the enemy had fled their occupation was gone. Horace insisted 
on his Jidus Achates — Jack, the real new Lord Hammersley — seeing 
him through the whole adventure, and they drove over by tliemseh e* 
in somebody else’s fly. 

How much of that same diamond-like article— the truth — Horace 
had read upon the young girl's face which she had discerned in his, 
in those brief moments, is uncertain — men are less gifted in such 
clairvoyances — but he now fairly panted and burned to have an ex- 
haustive explanation with her he had once so wildly adored. 

“Jack,” he said, seizing the other’s arm as they jolted along, 
“ you well know 1 came down here for you, and to do an act of com- 


SILYERMEAD. 209 

mon justice; if the bride had been a Miss Grigsly 1 had never heard 
of, it would have made no difference.” 

“ Well?” 

‘‘Well, I no sooner caught sight of Cam— of Miss Harding, 
than — Oh, Jack, 1 believe 1 love her as wildly as ever.” 

“Oh, Horace; and Lady Susan, who was so noble in letting your 
marriage be put off for three days?” 

“ I can’t help that. I am not telling you what 1 shall do, but wdiat 
I feel; we don’t make our own emotions.” 

Naturally Lady Prendergast and Mr. Harding were the two most 
cut up about this strange esclandre. It is always galling to be made 
the victim of a fraud, and this was on so great and public a scale, 
and affecting, as they still believed, the welfare of their beloved 
Camilla! 

As they drove up together, escorting Camilla, the wedding break- 
fast table, with its central cake, its flowers, plate and rare china, 
caught their view through the open dining-room windows, and cut 
them to the core by its flaunting mockery. 

“ For heaven’s sake, Cave, have all that absurd spreadation taken 
away,” whispered the old lady, “ and a luncheon, as like every day 
as possible, got ready at once.” 

Camilla made the best of her way to change her dress. She felt 
so well and strong. Half an hour later she Joined the others in the 
dining-room. The table was laid for twenty, but only eight sat 
down, for to that number the party had dwindled. Needless to say 
that Miss Laffinch was there, quite aware she was intruding, but 
caring for that not a straw. 

What a budget of news she would make out of it for calls, din- 
ners and letters. If nothing particular happened she would invent. 
She afterward said to Mrs. de Basle: 

“My dear, I was in the act of driving off straight home from 
church when poor Lady Prendergast rushed up, and implored me 
not to leave her. What could I do?” 

Camilla had dismissed her bridemaids at the church door. 

During the rather hurried repast everybody made an effort to talk 
of indifferent matters, so that there was little stiffness and less 
silence. When the ladies rose Horace went and opened the door, 
Camilla saying to him as she passed, but so that all might hear her: 

“ Let us go out. I brought down a hat.” 

And without a word he followed her, leaving Jack and the others 
to discuss another glass of wine. 

The youthful pair went straight to the little summer house, where 
Camilla had held that interview with her father. 

“ Come,” she said, as they walked thither, “we shall be quiet 
there, and we have so much to ask and tell each other.” 

Oh, let us draw a veil over their secret words. Do we not know 
all that each of them had to learn? — all the minutely told machina- 
tions of the evil Cyril Acton. 

For the first hour, which flew like ten minutes, the 3 r did little but 
relate facts. Of course, as soon as Horace learnt that it was her 
father whom he had seen on that fatal night long ago, all became 
clear to him. Why had not some such suspicion, at least, struck 
him as possible? But no, fate had willed it otherwise. 


210 


SILVERMEAD. 


Perhaps The most thrilling moment of their confidence, of this 
joint narrative of their young lives since last they met, was when it 
transpired that their fiendish enemy had suppressed Camilla’s two 
letters. It is hard to say which felt the most on this cardinal fact 
coming to light. Horace bounded from his seat. 

“Where is he?’’ he cried, wildly stretching his hands into space 
for the invisible foe. “ Slave, hound! Oh that 1 could tear him!” 

“ And 1 thought him my friend,” exclaimed Camilla. “ Listen. 
He pretended to give me your very words after you had read my 
letters! Oh, Horace, do you not wonder that a thunderbolt is not 
sent down to crush such reptiles in the very act?” 

Then he made her tell him all she had written to him, almost 
word for word; and as it was graven almost indelibly in her heart, 
she did his bidding with little effort. 

And then, when all the hard facts had been dug out and turned 
over and over, what torrents of words did these two pour forth to 
express and give vent to their long-imprisoned feelings. 

As they sat hand in hand, her sunny head resting against his black 
coat in which he had journeyed from London, they were indeed the 
type of two long tempest-tossed ships -which, after sailing in halcyon 
seas side by side, had been parted by the storm, to meet now, tom 
and shattered, and to find rest and shelter in the same port. 

With the knowledge of each other’s innocence all the old love re- 
turned to her their true breasts with tenfold force. 

Did they forget Lady Susan? Oh, no, they could think of 
her — pity her with a clear conscience. She, like themselves, must 
bear whatever pain might fall to her lot from the black, heartless 
guilt of one and the same villain. In real life — and there it is where 
fiction least resembles truth — deliberate crime is nearly always irrep- 
arable — its effects eternal. Indeed, we may safely say that were it 
otherwise crime were scarcely crime — sin, sin. 

We have seen pretty exactly the amount of guilt committed by 
Cyril Acton, and more vaguely the degree of suffering entailed upon 
our promem sposi thereby, if remains on this subject only to indi 
cate in what proportion the trail of the serpent respectively afflicted 
both themselves and Lady Susan hereafter. 

As the lovers sit together in the pleasant rays of the October sun, 
both are exquisitely happy ; yet how utterly unlike are their views 
of even the immediate future ! 

Horace’s felicity is troubled by no doubt or misgiving. Camilla’s 
right to him, he tells himself, her priority of claim upon his honor- 
is too evident to require stating. He was engaged to her, she had 
never given him his liberty, and the grounds upon which he had 
taken upon himself to break the tie now turned out to be imaginary. 
He was in the position of a man who, believing his wife is dead, 
becomes betrothed to another woman. 

He knew, of course, that decency would demand some consider- 
able delay before he' could lead to the altar a girl who had that mo- 
ment left it under such very exceptional circumstances. Time must 
be given for the world to partially forget the countless articles, para- 
graphs, jokes, and even, doubtless, illustrations, which the press— 
especially the “ Society ” papers, would infallibly issue bv the cart- 
load, regarding so racy and unusual an occurrence. But" he felt so 


SILVERMEAT). 


211 

transported in regaining his idol and finding her all-in soul at least 
— that of old he dreamed her — that just to bask in her presence, 
hearken to her sweet voice and caress her hand abandoned to his 
own, was all the joy he could bear for a long time to come. While she 
— alack, how different her views ! Her every breath was now an act of 
thanksgiving to Heaven for having restored them to each other’s re- 
spect, and thus to mutual love. IIow she revels to-day in her 
Horace’s re-found bonor, in the return of his long-lost esteem for 
her truth! Oh, how right she had been when she declared to Lady 
Prendergast that he might w T ed but could never love but her. 

Yes, she revels in the present too fleeting hour, revels e’en as he 
does; and she has a tremendous reason— which she loves him too 
well to breathe of — for making, if that be conceivable, even more ot 
this glorious instant of their lives than he. She only knows of that 
to-morrow! 

At length she takes his arm, and they wander forth, now up and 
dowu, before all the windows of the house, anon to disappear for a 
space beneath groves and shrubberies. All the world may hear each 
word they say, and every eye watch any act of theirs. Their hon- 
esty is like the light of day, and they have no more shame in loving 
than a ten years’ wedded pair. 

The excitement of the morning, the ecstasy of the afternoon, have 
galvanized our little heroine into a state so nearly resembling perfect 
health, that even she herself — but that she knows it to be transient 
as the rainbow — could not detect a difference. 

The more she stays about, the more she talks to Horace, the less 
and less weak or tired does she feel. And this extends all through 
the evening, fehe dresses for dinner in the old ball dress she wore 
the night that Horace had asked her to be his wife. They sat down, 
a party of only five. The two ladies of the house. Cave Harding, 
Horace and Lord Hammersley; and in the evening Horace asked 
for, and obtained, more than one of the old favorite songs. Suffer- 
ing had imparted, to voice and face alike, that expression of which 
it is the only, the magic, fountain; and the entranced lover told 
himself, again and again, that she was more lovely and a hundred 
times more intoxicating even than of yore. 

It was nearly midnight before Lady Prendergast thought of dis- 
pelling the charm. What wonder! Happiness, as all the aged well 
know, is so rare a thing, it should be quaffed as it can;- for who 
shall tell what the morrow shall bring forth! 

What a sweet “ good-night,” was said all round. What plans for 
next morning, what grudging, on the part of the lovers, of the few 
hours claimed by repose, and which must now separate them! 

And in all her prayers that night — and they were real, honest 
prayers, said audibly with the lips, and upon her knees — her acts of 
praise and impromptu petitions for him she loved, none came more 
straight from her heart than her fervent act ot thanksgiving to the 
Merciful Dispenser of all things, who had saved her, in so unhoped 
for a manner, from being, even at that very moment, Cyril Acton’s 
wife. 


212 


S1LYEKMEAD. 


CHAPTER XLY111. 

Next day Horace was up with the lark —like a child that rises 
earlier on his birthday, that he may have more hours— and leaning 
from his open window, he gazed upon the morning. His thoughts 
were sweet and peaceful as the odors that arose — as the lovely scene 
around. 

Suddenly he hears the tramp of a horse. A gate swings to, and a 
groom in liot haste presently comes in sight, but far off, ridin gfrom 
the house and across country, making a short cut for the high-road. 

“ Strange,” bethinks, and scarcely accounting for the feeling, his 
happiness seems already dashed. 

“ Is anything the matter?” 

He goes to the door and opens it. 

Yes, the people are about, but that is no wonder in the country. 
■What time? A clock in the passage opposite him marks a quarter 
to seven. Doors bang now and again, he hears hurried steps 
and thinks he catches The sound of persons speaking rapidly, and in 
alarm his blood runs cold. 

Like the world at large, he had known of Cave Harding’s attempt 
to destroy himself — for the papers had got hold of the affair. As 
he stands there shivering, not with cold but anxiety, he tells him- 
self that no mania is more obstinate than a suicidal one. 

He dresses with all haste and hurries down. He finds dust-pans, 
brooms, et cetera, encumbering the drawing room, but not a house- 
maid is to be seen. 

He returns to his room and rings the bell. No answer! On the 
third attempt the footman deputed to wait on him appeared. 

“ Has anything happened?” 

“ Yes, sir. Miss Harding is took ill.” 

“ Oh, when?” 

“ ’Bout a hour ago, sir. The doctor ’ave been sent for.” 

“ Where is Mr. Harding?” 

“ Along of Miss Camilla, sir.” 

And in this grotesque language, so comic in its familiar igno- 
rance, was poor Horace doomed to receive the first death-blow of his 
new-born hopes. 

He had no idea that the man was not speaking like an Academi- 
cian. At such moments we notice not these things. 

It appeared from the servant’s account, which afterward proved 
exact enough in substance, that Camilla had awoke at about six, 
and feeling very ill, had rung up her maid, who, in turn, had spread 
the bad news, and Lady Prendergast had rushed to the bedside, and 
was evidently, from the first, in the most cruel state of fear. 

The sufferer complained of sharp spasms about the region of her 
heart and lungs, and breathed with much dffiiculty. 

Who shall describe the weary hours of that anxious, awful day. 
First, at about nine, Surgeon Brown appeared, and, at intervals, 
other doctors more eminent, but all told the same tale. The weak- 


SILYEBMEAI). 213 

ness was so extreme as to leave scarcely a hope of saving the pa- 
tient’s life. 

Stimulants were given of various kinds, and likewise powerful 
sedatives and anodynes. Cave Harding was like one demented, and 
his uncontrollable bursts of'tenderness, and his appeals to his child 
not to leave him, became at length so alarming, so agitating for the 
sufferer, that the wretched man had to be forbidden the room. 

Camilla's mind remained throughout clear as crystal. She had in- 
vited Death so often as a friend, a deliverer, that now that he had 
come, though at an unwelcome moment, she quite expected him, 
and would indeed have marveled had lie long delayed his visit. 

Ever thoughtful of others, she had done all she could, in the 
midst of her suffering, to calm and comfort her father, her gran’ma, 
and need 1 say she did not forget her Horace. 

“ Nurse, nurse,” she said to her faithful attendant, “go to Mr. 
Brudencll, and say — because gran’ma won’t leave me, or 1 would 
ask her — sa m y 1 will send for him some time to-day— I can’t say when, 
but some time — and not to fret for me — 1 am not unhappy.” 

And all day long the miserable lover lived upon that message. 

It was not "till nine o’clock in the evening that the summons "came. 

It found him quite spent with fever, tears, and fasting. 

As he entered the room, well prepared to see a great change in his 
beloved one, the shadowy apparition he beheld upon the bed appalled 
him beyond power of mind to tell. Beautiful she had lived, and 
beautiful Camilla Harding would die. Her abundant fleecy hair lay 
on the pillows all around her like a glory, and she had insisted upon 
having it carefully combed out. When a young lady is taken by a 
visitor unawares, she is not always quite tit to be seen, but the ar- 
rival of the ghastly claimant who now beckoned Camilla to another 
world had been, as 1 have shown, long looked forward to, and she 
was therefore fully prepared to receive his ever awful call becomingly. 

She had patiently waited all day till the pains should leave her, 
before seuding for her beloved. She seemed to know they would do 
so before the end of all things, and after a fearful paroxysm at about 
seven o’clock, lasting nearly an hour — and which was indeed her 
death agony— she had lain like one dead tor a time. Then fresh 
stimulants had been given, and they now afforded her a dying flash 
of existence, brief indeed, but calm, painless, and with just strength 
enough to use her mind, and clearly, though slowly, to speak her 
thoughts. 

At her request no one was present but her father, and the aged 
lady who so loved her. Poor Cave, when he once understood that 
his child was dying, had grown instantly quiet and meek as a child. 
They were standing at one side of her. No sooner did she catch 
sight of Horace than a heavenly smile lit up her face. It, like her 
hands, seemed so diaphanous that she gave you the idea of having 
lost the earthly quality of weight, and as though a puff of breath 
would waft her to the sky. 

She held out her hand almost cheerfully, which he took and gently 
kissed. 

“ Horace,” she said, retaining it, “ 1 — 1 would not tell you yes- 
terday— you seemed so happy— but 1 have long known 1 must die 


214 


SILVEftMEAT). 


soon. 1 want you to know always that tlie loss of your love— no 
other trouble — killed me.” 

A heart broken sob was the young man’s only reply, and the 
rapid tears ran down liis cheeks like rain. 

“ It was no fault of yours. We were unfortunate, and now must 
say farewell till we meet above.” 

He managed just to breathe her name and press her hand. 

“ 1 have things 1 must say to you — you will do all 1 ask? Nay, 
you must, for you would have me die happy?” 

And still she smiled. 

“ What could I refuse you?” he murmured. 

* * Y es, but promise. ’ ’ 

“Ido— 1 do.” 

” On your word?” 

“ Yes— yes, my own.” 

“ You make me happy. Oh, you cannot guess how 1 am blessing 
you! First, you must forgive Mm — you know — Acton. 

“ Oh* lhave.” 

“ 1 mean as a Christian; not to know him or be his friend, but 
you will nevca* seek to harm him; no revenge .” 

“ I swear it!” 

Her next request astounded him. 

She said, 

“ Only one more thing. You will marry Ladj r Susan. Yes; be- 
lieve me, it will be happiest for you. Oh, 1 see all things so clearly 
now, and she is good and loves you so; and why should she lose 
you too? Is. not my pain in leaving you enough? For even though 
*1 am going to my God, my heart still yearns to you.” 

After a sharp, short struggle Horace said: 

“ 1 am surprised you ask it. 1 should never have wedded any 
woman, losing you. 1 thought, I hoped, you were about to ask me 
to live faithful to your memory. But you have my word. 1 swear 
to make Lady Susan Graye as happy as in me lies.” 

“ Oh, how 1 thank you. Horace, this is the end. 1 scarcely see 
your face. Stoop down; there now, 1 see you still. Ah! not so 
well : how daik it gets! Horace, kiss me. 1 need not tell you to be 
kind to papa and gran ’m a; that your heart will make you do for 
me. 1 am talking all to you, but I wished them good-by before you 
came. Horace, my love, once more!” 

And on that last, long, holy kiss her spirit fled! 


THE END. 


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224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

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ander 20 

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240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby's Grandmother. By 

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242 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

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244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

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245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

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247 The Armourer's Prentices. By 

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248 The House on the 3Iarsh. F. 

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249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

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250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
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252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita. ”. . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife's Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 


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255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

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256 Mr. Smith; A. Part of His Life. 

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258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford. ... 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

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Dumas 10 

2G0 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti. By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


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264 Piedouehe, A French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgoboy 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 20 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale 

for a Land Baby. By the Rev. 
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267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

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269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

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272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

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273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

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274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
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and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 


277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

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278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 


cl (3 13 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester. ... 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Ilay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

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283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

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284 Doris. By “The Duchess ”. .. 10 


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286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

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287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “ Brutal 


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290 Nora’s Love Test. Bj’ Mary Cecil 

Hay... 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart, By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne . 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne”. 10 

295 A Woman ’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 1C 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline's Dream. By the au 
thor of “ Dora Thorne . . . 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killaruey. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 


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318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals; And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid. 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 


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330 May Blossom ; or. Between Two 

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331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

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334 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

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335 The White Witch. A Novel.. . . 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray. 
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338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

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339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

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340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

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341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

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342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

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313 The Talk of the Town. By 

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314 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

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345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant — 20 

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347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

AH nee 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

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350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

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352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
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356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

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357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

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358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

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359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

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360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

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361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

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363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

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364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

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365 George Christy; or, The Fort- 

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366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 

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367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

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373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

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374 The Dead Man’s Secret; or, The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
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375 A Ride to Khiva. Bv Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 
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376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

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383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

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384 On Horseback Through Asia 

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387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

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397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

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399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee.. 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

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401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

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405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

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407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

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A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 
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438 Found Out. Helen B. Mathers. 10 

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444 The Heart of Jane Warner. By 

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445 The Shadow of a Crime. By 

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470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
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471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

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472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 

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474 Serapis. By George fibers 20 

475 The Prima Donna's Husband. 

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476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 

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477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

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480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

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481 The House that Jack Built. By 

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482 A Vagrant Wife. By F. Warden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

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484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

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485 Tinted Vapours. ByJ. Maclaren 


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486 Dick's Sweetheart. By “The 

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487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

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488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

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489 Rupert Godwin. B} - Miss M. E. 

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490 A Second Life. Mrs. Alexander 20 

491 Society in London. By A For- 

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492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

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493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

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494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 

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495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

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496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

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497 The Lady’s Mile. By Miss M. 

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498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

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499 The Cloven Foot. By Miss M. 

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500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris. 20 

501 Mr. Butler's Ward. By F. 

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504 Curly : An Actor's Story. By 

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505 The Society of London. By 

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506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

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507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

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